textfiles/sf/STARTREK/alaq

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Archivist note:
Kellie Matthews-Simmon's email address is now matthewk@ucsu.colorado.edu
===========================================================================

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Date: Mon, 30 Aug 1993 14:08:36 -0500 (CDT)
Subject: A'la Q, Part 1, by Kellie Matthews-Simmons & Julia Kosatka
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While this story contains a small amount of PG-13 Sex, we do not consider it
to be the main focus of the story.  If there isn't enough sex in it for you,  
go read Points of View, or  The Delightful Education of Julian Bashir.  :-)
If sex in a Trek story offends you, have one of your more open-minded friends 
read it first and black out all the good parts!

Other than that, it is a Star Trek: The Next Generation story, and it violates
all kinds of copyright laws, so you shouldn't be reading it anyway!  :-)

Paramount had nothing whatsoever to do with this story, other than by hiring 
actors and writers to create some of the characters in the first place.

Many thanks to our technical advisors Sandra Guzdek and Janis Cortese, without
whom certain things celsius and metric would have been hopelessly incorrect.
Thanks also to Sandra Guzdek for invaluable editing help.  Any remaining errors
are ours alone.

c. 1993 by Julia Kosatka and Kellie Matthews-Simmons

jkosatka@jetson.uh.edu  //  matthews_k@cubldr.colorado.edu
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
				A la Q	
                  (or,"You Want Fries With That?")
               Kellie Matthews-Simmons & Julia Kosatka


      "Q!"  Jean-Luc roared, looking around desperately.  "Damn it, 
Q, where *are* you?"
      He stood in the middle of a road, a level black surface that was
slightly sticky in the heat, stretching off into the distance in both
directions, its surface broken only by a dashed line of orange-yellow
paint.  Surrounding him was a wide expanse of what appeared to be corn
fields.  The blue sky above was cloudless, and the sun beat down with 
merciless intensity.  The humidity was so high that the lightweight
blue shirt with which Q had replaced his uniform tunic was already damp
with sweat.  His legs were encased in a trousers of a similar, though 
heavier fabric.  The trousers looked worn, the dye faded almost white
in spots.  Q was nowhere to be seen.
      He sighed.  It was a typically Q maneuver, to spirit him off 
somewhere to prove a point.  He wasn't precisely sure what the point
was, but he was sure he'd find out.  Their argument had concerned
the nature of work.  It had to have *something* to do with that.  He
wondered where the hell he was.  The blue sky and corn could easily
mean Earth, but it could just as easily be somewhere else.  The yellow-
striped road rang bells too.  He chuckled, realizing what his subconscious 
was trying to remind him of.  The yellow brick road from a classic children's 
story.  He had read it, and seen both of the famous film versions as well.
      "Damn!" he muttered, realizing that most likely Q had no intention 
of responding.  "What is it you're after, Q?  There's no need for these
constant games!  I have no intention of performing for you!"  
      Behind him, Jean-Luc heard a low rumbling.  He turned to see a 
vehicle of some sort rapidly approaching on the road.  He quickly stepped
out of the way, coughing as the machine roared past in a rush of hot foul 
air and dry dust.  He stared after it, startled, realizing that the thing 
was bigger than a shuttle.  As he stared, it emitted a loud screeching 
sound and slowed to a halt.  Then it backed up toward him.  He took
another step back, wondering if it was trying to hit him, then a part of it
swung outward and a human man peered out from inside.  His face was
weathered, but his brown eyes bright and friendly.
      "Hey!  Wha'chew doin' out in the middle uh bumfuck nowhere? 
Nearest town's twenty miles from here!  You wanna lift?
      Apparently he was being offered transportation to the nearest
outpost of civilization.  For a moment he was torn.  If he moved from his
present position there was no way his crew would be able to find him.  On
the other hand, there was no guarantee that they'd be able to in any case. 
Q probably hadn't left them a map, and he'd be dehydrated in a matter
of hours at this rate.  He nodded.
      "I would appreciate that, thank you."
      The man did a double take, eyes widening, then he grinned. 
"Yew're a long way from home, ain'tcha?"
      Picard smiled.  No matter how one looked at it, that was no more
than the simple truth.  "Yes.  As a matter of fact, I am."
      "Yew a limey?"
      "A... limey?"
      "English, yew know."
      That placed him.  He had to be on Earth.  That was some relief,
at least.  He shook his head.  "No, actually, I'm from France."
      "Don't sound French," his rescuer said dubiously.
      "I learned to speak English from an Englishman.  No doubt I
picked up some of his accent."
      "Oh.  Well, come around an' climb in.  I got a schedule, y'know."
      Picard circled around the vehicle, noticing there were yellow letters
stenciled on the green-painted sides of the conveyance.  They read
"Mayflower."  He recognized the name; if he recalled his history correctly,
the Mayflower had been a ship which had transported religious dissidents
from England to North America in the latter's colonial period.  Below the
word Mayflower, was a smaller legend in yellow, reading "Coast to Coast."
Neither of those facts were particularly helpful to him, however he spotted
a small rectangular plaque at the rear of the vehicle which was more
enlightening.  It bore a series of large letters and numerals, and another
set of much smaller letters read  "Oklahoma is OK."    A small sticker in
the lower right hand corner of the plaque read "DEC" and a similar one
on the left said "91."  He was fairly certain now that he was somewhere 
in North America; and just as certain that Q had displaced him
not only in space, but in time as well. 
      "Yew git lost?"  the driver called, voice barely carrying above the noise
of the idling internal combustion engine.  Aware that his ride might well
depart without him, he found the door, pulled himself up into the cabin of 
the vehicle and seated himself.  Instant relief from the heat flowed over him 
in a cold stream from air vents in the cabin.  A quick look around showed 
various gauges, and a steering device shaped like a wheel.  The man looked 
at him questioningly, obviously wondering about his delay.
      "Sorry,  I was... admiring your vehicle."
      That earned him a broad smile.  "Hell, she ain't no 'veehicle,' she's
an eighteen wheeler, 'member that!  But she is somethin' ain't she?  She'll
do a hunnerd up Vail Pass with a full load... if the cops ain't lookin' o'
course!"
      He seemed to want a response.  Picard smiled and nodded.  "Of
course.  That's quite... impressive."
      "Sure as hell is!"  He stuck out his hand.  "Name's Nate Barker,
what's yours?"
      Picard shook his hand, feeling the rough edges of callus in the
man's broad palm. 
      "Ca... Jean-Luc Picard."
      "Well, Cajun Luke, nice ta meetcha,"  he surveyed Picard curiously for
a moment, then frowned.  "Where's yer stuff?"
      "My stuff?"
      "Ain'tcha got a pack or sumpthin'?  Changea clothes?"
      Stuff was apparently synonymous with luggage.  He shook his head,
hoping he looked appropriately forlorn.  "I... lost it."
      Barker looked at him for a long moment, then scowled.  "Somebody
give ya a lift then take off with yer stuff?"
      Thievery seemed like a more logical explanation than carelessness,
so he nodded.  Barker's scowl grew fiercer.
      "Happens alla time.  Damn shame, treatin' furriners like that. 
Gives 'murricans a bad name.  Well, let me tell ya, *I* ain't like that!"
      "I can see that,"  Picard hastened to reassure him.  Barker reached
behind the seat, pulled something out from behind it, and brandished it at
Picard.
      "Here, this'll come in handy when yer hitchin'.  "'T'hout a hat the
sun'll fry ya faster than a lizard on a griddle."
      Contemplating that unpleasant image, Picard took the object.  It was
a billed cap the front of which was made of some spongy material, the
back formed of some plastic-feeling mesh.  It was green, and bore the
same yellow lettering as the sign on the truck, but in addition this one also
said "Barker Trucking, Midland, OK."   The words were followed by a
string of 11 digits, some of which were contained in parentheses, the rest
connected by a hyphen. 
      "I can't take this..."  he began, only to have the other man interrupt.
      "Sure y'can.  Got a hunnerd of 'em.  Advertisin' y'know."  
      "Advertising?"
      "Yep.  People see that, and know t' call me if they need a rig."
      "Of course,"  Picard acknowledged, only half-understanding, though
the flattened vowels, nasal consonants and clipped endings of the man's
speech were becoming more intelligible as time went on.  "Thank you, it
will be... handy."
      Barker nodded dismissingly.  "No problem, Luke."
      He moved the large lever between them forward and the "rig"
began to move forward, slowly at first, then with increasing speed.  After
a few moments Picard guessed they were traveling well over a hundred
kilometers an hour.  He wondered if that was what Barker had meant
when he said the truck would do "over a hundred up Vail pass."  
     Apparently satisfied with the vehicle's velocity, Barker reached behind 
the seat again and opened a small blue container with the word 'Igloo'
embossed on the lid.  He rummaged around inside it for a moment and then
came up with two bottles containing a chartreuse liquid.  
      "Here y'go." Barker handed one of the bottles, dripping with cold water
to Jean-Luc.  
      "That sun'll take it out of 'ya, that's fer dang shure.  Yew spend
much time in this here part a th' country, yew'll learn.  Yew gotta keep
drinkin'.  Ah recall a fella ah knowed once who dropped dead one day of a
stroke.  Doc says it was the see-gars, but I say it was de-hi-drashun.  
Lessee, it wuz Jake Sanchez down in El Paso.  No, wait a bit.  That wuz
Carlos I knowed down there.  Jake was the fella from Dur-ango.  He was a
caution, wuz that one..."
       Jean-Luc tried not to smile as he let Barker's voice fade into the
background.  He recognized the type and knew that all that was required of
him was to look interested and nod once in a while.  He turned his attention
to the bottle his host handed him.  He *was* thirsty, but now that he'd 
discovered where and when he was, what little he remembered about the
dietary habits of this culture was not encouraging.  The bottle's seal broke
with a simple twist of the wrist and he cautiously sniffed the contents.  It
smelled unlike anything he'd ever encountered before, but didn't smell like
alcohol, which is what he'd feared.  For all of Barker's concern about
'de-hi-drashun,' Jean-Luc wasn't sure how much he knew about how to
prevent it.  Barker was obviously enjoying his drink with no apparent
side-effects and even managed to drink and swallow with barely a pause in his
monologue.  He took a cautious sip.  Sweet, almost overwhelmingly so, and after
that he noticed a distinct lime taste.  There was an undercurrent of something
else, but mostly it was cold, wet and surprisingly refreshing.  He drank down
half the bottle before stopping to look at the label.  It was something called
'Gatorade,' and boasted that it replaced lost electrolytes.  He was surprised. 
Apparently Barker was more sophisticated than he looked.  He couldn't help
noticing that one of the primary ingredients in the mixture was glucose syrup 
solids, and farther on it listed sodium saccharine.  No wonder the stuff was 
so sweet!  His attention was pulled back to Barker.
     "So, how'd ya get the moniker Cajun Luke?  Ya spend some time
down t' Louisiana?  Or is it 'cause yer French?"
     Picard rapidly searched his memory.  Louisiana had once been a
French colony.  That made a certain amount of sense.  He nodded, unwilling
to disabuse Barker of the error in his name.  He might have to come up with
an explanation as to why he had almost prefaced his name with the title
'captain.'  He managed to dredge up the name of a city in Louisiana.
     "I spent time in New Orleans."
     "Thought as much.  Yew got any cash, or did they get that too?"
      Cash... that one he knew.  Money.  He shook his head.  "No, I
haven't any money."
      "Figgered as much.  Here..."  he let go of the wheel with both hands
and started digging in his pocket.  Picard watched in alarm as the truck
headed for the side of the road.  He was about to reach for the wheel
himself when Barker used an elbow to straighten out the massive vehicle's
trajectory with a grin.
      "Sorry, din't mean t' scare ya."
      Still searching his pockets he finally pulled out a wadded up piece
of greenish paper which he handed to Picard, who took it, studying it
curiously, fairly certain it was some sort of currency.  
      "It's only a five, but it's all I can spare.  It'll buy ya lunch, and
maybe a snack later if you're careful."
      Immediately Picard tried to hand it back to him. "I couldn't possibly
accept this!"
      "Course ya can!  Don't want 'chew ta think all 'murrican's'r thieves. 
I'll drop you at the Double R in Ridge.  Rena, she owns the diner there now
that her folks is gone, she can prob'ly find yew a job so's you can earn
enough to get back on yer feet.  There's 'most always some kinda short-timer
job around for a man who ain't afraid t' work.  This time'a year there's
harvest work, if nuthin' else."
     Somewhat reluctantly Picard pocketed the bill.
     "Thank you, you've been more than kind.  I don't know that I will be
able to repay you."
     Barker seemed embarrassed, and waved a hand as if shooing off flies. 
      "Aw, don't mention it.  Jus' think o' me as one o' them there Good
Sam's.  Allus liked that story."
     Good Sam?  Picard didn't recognize the allusion, but got the general
idea.  He smiled.  "Well, thank you again."
     "T'weren't nuthin'.  I like ta think some soul might do the same fer
me, someday.  There's Ridge up ahead, ain't nuthin' but a wide spot in the
road anymore, since The Bust back in eighty-two."
     "The bust?"
     "You know, the big crash.  Oil industry went t'hell in a handbasket."
     "Ah, right."  
     It was difficult to pretend he knew what the man was talking about.  
There were so many little economic crises in history that had been called 
virtually the same thing, and it had been years since he'd thought about 20th
Century world history.  He needed to find a library, hopefully Ridge would 
have one.  Barker had slowed down a bit on approaching the town, and it did 
look rather like a wide spot in the road.  A few large buildings lined either 
side of the road; a cluster of eerily alike houses surrounding them.  It was 
as if they'd all been cut from dough with a cookie cutter.  Many of them 
appeared abandoned, with broken windows, and yards overgrown with weeds.  
The occasional swathe of bright green, carefully manicured lawn made fairly 
obvious which houses were occupied, and which were not.  One building near 
the edge of town had a tall, circular tower next to it.  The sign in front 
read  "CO-OP," which told him nothing.  He wondered what function it served.  
A church, perhaps?  He recalled that the United States in the early to mid 
1900's had been quite fixated on religion.
     "The Double R's on the far end o' town, though that ain't s'far from 
the near end,"  Barker chuckled, pleased with his joke.  "Anyhow, I'll
drop y' there.  Ask fer Rena Taylor if y'decide y'wanta earn a couple
bucks afore y' move on.  She'll know if anybody's hirin'."
     "You're not going to come in?"  Picard asked, oddly ill at ease with
the thought of begging work from a total stranger.
     "Nope, caint.  Had a breakdown two days back an' I gotta make up the 
time.  Schedules'r'hell, dontcha know?  'Specially furniture.  People get
right nasty if you ain't on time with their stuff."
     Picard tried not to stare at him blankly, but he had absolutely no
idea what furniture had to do with being on a schedule.  He nodded.
     "Yes, it's always difficult to maintain a schedule, especially if
you've had mechanical difficulties."
     "Shed-yool?"  Barker asked, raising his busy gray brows.  "Oh, y' mean 
*sked-yool* dontcha?"  He grinned, and winked.  "I think Rena's gonna
like you.  She's got a University degree!  She's a good girl, comin' home 
t' help her folks out before they passed on."
     After a moment, Picard puzzled that out to mean that the woman's parents
had died.  The percentage of colloquialisms in Barker's speech was truly 
daunting.  
     As they drove through the small town, Picard noticed that several of
the storefronts lining the street were empty, with "for rent" signs in them.
It was a rather depressing sight.  Obviously the town was on its last legs.
He had read about the economic depression rampant in the late twentieth 
century, but it had never been brought home quite so forcefully before.  He
was seeing history alive.  Despite his irritation with Q's interference, 
he had to admit to a certain exhilaration at seeing the past so close.  Not
as an archaeologist or historian, from a distance, but close, personal,
real.  Barker slowed the truck to a crawl, and gestured to the right.
      "There she is, the Double R Diner.  Best eats between Lake Charles
and Houston."
      The building was unprepossessing.  A small, two-story rectangle, 
probably no more than a hundred to a hundred and fifty square meters per level. 
It was built of blonde brick and wood, and the front of the lower level 
consisted almost entirely of windows, which were shaded by a worn-looking green 
cloth awning.  Several trucks similar in size to Barker's, as well as numerous 
smaller ground vehicles were parked in a large graveled lot off to one side.  
Large trees shaded the rear and the well-tended lawn on the other side of the 
building, and flowers in large wooden tubs along the walk softened the spartan 
exterior.  A slightly faded sign above the door announced the name of the 
establishment.  Barker brought the truck to a stop next to the walkway.
      "Here y'go, Luke.  Hope yer trip gets better from here on out."
      "So do I, Mr. Barker.  Thank you again for your kindness.  I'll try
to leave a repayment of your loan here for you when I depart, since you 
seem to frequent the area."
      "Nate, call me Nate, an' don't worry none about payin' me back.
What goes around comes around.  Don't fergit, ask fer Rena Taylor."
      "I won't."  Picard shook the man's hand, and exited the vehicle.
      The heat struck him like a blast furnace, he felt sweat forming
in just the few seconds he had been out of the truck.  He returned 
Barker's wave as he pulled away, then turned and walked into the building.
      Wonderfully cool air swept over him as he entered the diner, and 
brought with it an incredible co-mingling of scents.  He realized suddenly 
that he was hungry.  A long counter ran the length of the room, and every 
stool at the counter was filled.  Freestanding tables dotted the central 
area and booths lined the windowed wall.  He guessed the room would have a 
total capacity of about a hundred and fifty, and it was about half filled 
at the moment.  A rather heavily-made-up young blonde woman in her early 
twenties looked up from pouring a glass of water, and smiled.
      "Be right with ya."
      He nodded, and waited.  Moments later she put down the pitcher and
came around the end of the counter.  He was a bit surprised to see that
she was in a rather advanced stage of pregnancy.  Her smile was cheerful,
though, as she pulled a plasticized folder from a holder on the wall
by the door and looked at him attentively.  
      "How many t'day, sir?"  she queried.  Her accent was similar to
Barker's in some ways, but softer, rounder, less nasal.  He found himself 
smiling back at her.  A large badge pinned to the pocket of her blouse read
"Sueann,"  apparently to encourage customers to call her by name.
      "Just one, thank you."
      Sueann's eyes got wide, and she put a hand against her throat.
      "Why, don't ya'll have jus' th' nicest accent?  You must be English!"
      He almost smiled, thinking of Nate Barker's similar comment, and 
shook his head.  "No, I'm not, but I learned English from an Englishman."
      "Oh, well that explains it then, don't it?  Anyplace special you'd
like to sit?"
      "Ah... would there be alright?"  He pointed to an unoccupied booth
in the back of the room next to the doors he assumed led to the kitchen 
area.  No one sat in the booth next to it, or at the closest table, giving 
him a bit of privacy.  Sueann nodded.
      "That's jus' fine."  she led the way to the table, then handed him
the plasticized folder.  Once he had taken a seat, she ceremoniously
placed a paper placemat and a thick cloth napkin rolled around a set of
slightly beaten-up stainless steel utensils on the table.  
      "There y'go.  I'll be back to take your order in two shakes.  Y'all
want coffee?"
      Though his usual choice of beverage was tea, the coffee had been
tantalizing him with its aroma since he entered the diner.  He nodded.
      "Cream with that?"
      "No, thank you, black."
      "You got it, hon."
      Sueann waddled off toward the counter again.  The folder bore the
legend "MENU" in large block capitals on the front.  He opened it and
perused the contents.  After a few moments he had recalled another fact
about the twentieth century.  Heart disease had been rampant, and the
menu made at least part of the reason for that quite apparent.  Nearly 
every item on it contained vast amounts of cholesterol.  Eggs, bacon, 
red meat, fried foods, butter, cream.  An amazingly deadly array of 
culinary delights. He studied the prices, and realized that stretching the 
five dollars Barker had given him to include more than one meal would be 
difficult. If Q was serious about leaving him here, he would definitely have 
to find gainful employment, and soon.
      Sueann returned with his coffee, and he ordered a cup of soup,
which she assured him was made from "scratch" (which he hoped wasn't as 
awful as it sounded), and a salad.  As she turned to go, he stopped her.
      "You wouldn't happen to have a..."  he groped a moment for the word
he wanted, then found it. "...a newspaper would you?"
      "You want the Ridge Star, or the Houston Chronicle?"
      "I wouldn't mind looking at both, if that's possible."
      "Well, the Star's free right now, but you'd have to wrestle Larry
Cox for the Chronicle. I 'magine he'll be done soon, though, he just reads
it for the sports, the comics and Dear Abby. 'Course, he'd never admit
that last one!"  She giggled.  "Anyhow, I'll snag it for you as soon as it's 
free, and bring the Star with your salad.  How's that?"
      "That would be fine, thank you."
      As she turned to go, he noticed a ring of discolored skin around her
arm just above the elbow, and frowned.  It looked as if someone had grabbed
her there, leaving bruises.  He realized as she walked away, that he could
see a trace of bruising along one cheek as well, though it was mostly hidden
by the heavy makeup she wore, probably with the intent of concealing the
bruises.  He watched her for a few moments, noticing that though she appeared 
bright and cheerful most of the time, when she thought no one was watching 
her expression became rather depressed.
      Another woman came through the kitchen doors, this one a small brunette
in her early to mid thirties.  She carried a deep tub into which she placed
dirty dishes gathered from the various tables.  He found his attention 
diverted from the blonde.  She was quite attractive.  Her figure was softly 
curved in all the right places.  He had to admit that the close-fitting blue 
canvas trousers that virtually everyone wore served to emphasize certain 
portions of female anatomy quite nicely.  He suspected they probably did the 
same for men.  The woman's dark brown hair was cut quite short, and curled in 
soft ringlets around her face.  Her mouth was generous, her eyes large and 
almond-shaped, her nose straight. But quite apart from her attractiveness, 
she had an indefinable intensity about her that intrigued him.  She seemed 
to stop and speak to everyone at least once, and as she passed Sueann she 
patted her shoulder encouragingly.  Picard was fairly certain that she was 
the woman he'd been instructed to speak to about a job.  She looked altogether 
too busy at the moment to approach, but he resolved to wait it out.
     It was several minutes before Sueann came back with his food, and a thin 
sheaf of folded paper.  She set the two bowls down carefully and placed the 
paper to one side with a smile.
     "There y'go.  Enjoy!"
     "Thank you, I'm sure I will."
     He regarded the food for a moment, half expecting it to look different
from what he was used to.  It didn't.  There were several types of greens, in
the salad.  He recognized spinach and romaine, but a third variety he didn't 
know.  Carrot wheels and shreds of purple cabbage ornamented the plate, as 
well as several small pear-shaped yellow tomatoes and sliced cucumber.  He 
picked up his fork, stabbed a leaf of lettuce from the plate, and bit into 
it tentatively.  It tasted good, far better than he had expected, somehow 
having prejudged the century as having bad food.  The dressing was some creamy 
white stuff that tasted vaguely of buttermilk.  He'd had worse in his own time. 
     Encouraged, he tried the soup, which was a surprise.  It was superb, a 
rich clear broth that tasted strongly of chicken and herbs, and just a hint 
of white wine.  Lengths of pasta that were obviously hand-cut, judging from 
their irregular thicknesses, and large chunks of various vegetables enlivened 
the broth.  He discovered a little plastic packet containing two thin crackers 
tucked under the edge of the bowl, and even they weren't half bad.  So much for
his 24th Century gastronomic prejudices, he acknowledged ruefully, wondering 
what other preconceived notions would have to go by the wayside.
     He finished his food rather more quickly than he should have, pushed the
dishes aside, and picked up the paper.  The date in the upper left corner of 
the header was September 10, 1991.  In the upper right, he discovered where 
he was; Ridge, Texas.  That told him enough to place him in the southwestern 
United States, though not enough to fully satisfy his curiosity.  He paged 
through the eight sheets of print quickly, learning that several young people 
from the community had recently gone off to college, someone had sold a 
"prize steer" for a large sum of money, and a local woman had won a contest
at a state fair with her apple pie.  Apparently the local paper was geared 
more to subjects of interest to the native populace than to world events.  
He also noticed a large advertisement for a "going out of business sale"
at a local women's clothing shop, and a long list of bank foreclosures. 
The town was obviously in trouble.
      "Excuse me..."
      Jean-Luc looked up to find a man standing next to the table, a much
thicker sheaf of papers held carefully in gnarled hands.  He was a lean, 
brown man with thick white hair, blue eyes, and a face lined and worn from
the years of exposure to the elements.  He smiled tentatively.
      "Sueann said you wanted t'see the Chronicle once I was done.  Well,
I'm done now, so here y'go."
      Jean-Luc accepted the paper, trying not to stare at the man's hands. 
It took him a moment to realize what he was seeing.  Arthritis.  The man
had arthritis in his hands, the deterioration making them knotty, and
painfully curved.  He had studied ancient skeletons so afflicted in his 
archaeology and anthropology courses, but had never seen a living person 
actually stricken with the disease before.  Realizing he had almost let
the pause go on too long, he quickly spoke.
      "Thank you, very much.  I appreciate your bringing it over."
      The man waved a hand at him with a grin.  "Oh, pshaw, t'weren't
nothin'.  Say, are you from England?  I was there once, when I was a
kid, fightin' in The War."
      Picard stifled a sigh.  Three.  That made three people who'd asked
him that already.  What was it with these people?  He forced a smile, since
the elderly gentleman was obviously well intentioned.
      "No, sir, I'm not British, I'm French, but I have been told that my
accent is more British.  Probably due to the gentleman from whom I learned
to speak English."
      "Ah, well, that explains it, then, don't it?  I was in France too,
y'know, and Belgium.  We were all over the place, makin' sure them Jerry's
didn't win the war."
      Picard suddenly realized the man was referring to World War Two.  He
sat up straighter, intrigued.  He was actually speaking to someone who 
fought in one of the most famous of Earth's myriad wars!  As a young man 
he had visited many of the sites where famous battles had been fought,
and also the museums of the concentration camps where so many had died.
      "You fought in World War Two?"  he queried, realizing his voice
sounded somewhat amazed.  The other man nodded, a grin lighting his
weathered face as he realized that Picard was actually interested.
      "I sure did!  Why I remember..."
      "Dad?"
      They both looked at the woman who had interrupted him.  She was a 
thin woman in her mid-forties, and she had the largest hair Picard had
ever seen.  Her bright yellow-blonde hair had been teased and lacquered into
a virtual helmet of hair.  She had a slightly patronizing expression on her 
face as she laid a hand on the older man's sleeve.  
      "Come on, Dad, we need to go,"  she turned to Picard apologetically.
"I'm sorry, he does tend to go on, sometimes!"
      The man's face fell, his disappointment obvious.  Picard felt a touch
of annoyance at the woman's attitude.
      "I *was* interested in what he had to say."
      "Well, that's right nice of you to say so, but we really do need to go."
      Her father nodded forlornly, his shoulders sagging.  
      Picard stood, and held out his hand.  "I am honored to have met you 
sir, and wish we could have had a chance to talk longer."
      The man straightened, and put his hand in Picard's, his grip 
surprisingly firm, considering his affliction.  He shot a glance at his 
daughter, and his expression was almost merry.  
      "Thank you, son, it's nice to have met you too.  The name's Cox, by 
the way, Larry Cox."
      Picard nodded, "I'm Jean-Luc Picard."
      "Well, you have a nice day, Mr. Picard,"  Cox said, ignoring the
tug on his sleeve.  "And enjoy the paper."
      "I will, thank you sir."
      Cox shrugged off his daughter's hand and preceded her from the diner,
his bearing regal.  Picard sat back down, but not before he noticed the
brunette with the dish-tub watching the two leave with a half-smile on her 
face.  After they were gone she turned and looked at Picard, and nodded at 
him approvingly before disappearing back into the back room.  He smiled to
himself as he picked up the larger paper.  It never hurt to make a good
impression on someone you were going to have to ask a favor of.  His glance
flickered across the page and stopped, his attention riveted by the words in 
bold typeface on a small square of blue color near the bottom of the page.  
      "Are we having fun yet, Mon Capitain?"
      The words were spoken as well, just behind him, in a soft, mocking voice
that he knew all too well.  
      "Q!"  he hissed, as he turned and stood simultaneously, banging his 
knees painfully on the edge of the table in the process, only to find there 
was no one there, not a soul.  Several people looked up from their meals, 
obviously wondering what he was doing.  Embarrassed he sat back down and 
studied the paper intently, as much to close out any stares as for any more 
literary reason.  The sentence which had caught his eye was gone, the 
blue square where it had been now listed the average monthly rainfall and 
temperatures for the city of Houston.  It had definitely not been there before. 
Q was up to his tricks.  In a way it was reassuring.  He had begun to wonder 
when the entity would pop up again.  Apparently whatever he was supposed to 
be doing was progressing as Q wished.  



                                  ###

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Subject: A'la Q, Part 2, by Kellie Matthews-Simmons & Julia Kosatka
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     When Picard looked up from the paper again, the restaurant was 
deserted save for himself, which seemed odd, since only a few minutes 
earlier it had been packed.  He glanced at the clock, which told him it 
was fifteen minutes after one.  He signaled the waitress, and she came 
over with the coffee pot in her hand.
     "'Nother refill for you there?"
     "No, thank you, I've finished.  I was wondering if I could speak to
a woman named Rena Taylor.  I was told she might be able to assist me."
     "Sure thing, hon."  Sueann half-turned away, and yelled  "REEEENA!  
SOMEBODY TO SEE YOU!"
     Picard winced, but since there was no one else in the restaurant it
didn't disturb anyone.  A few moments later the kitchen doors swung open 
to admit the petite brunette.  She was drying her hands on a towel tucked 
into the waistband of her trousers, and she approached with a slightly 
distracted air.  Reaching the table she touched the waitress on the shoulder.
     "Thanks, Sueann.  Would you mind asking Billy Ray to clean the grill
before he gets started on dinner prep?"
     "No problem, Reenie,"  she winked at her employer and lumbered off
to set down the coffee pot before entering the kitchen.  Picard watched
her, wondering it was wise for her to be working such a physically demanding 
job when she was obviously close to term.  The other woman's low, pleasant 
voice pulled his attention to hers.  He noticed her voice was less heavily 
accented than most he had so far encountered.  She really was quite 
attractive, he noticed again.  Her expression was frankly curious as she
regarded him.
     "Hi, I'm Rena Taylor, what can I do for you?"
     "Nate Barker told me you might know where I could possibly find short-
term employment around here.  Is that true?"
     "Well, Mr...."  she paused, obviously waiting for him to supply his name.  
     "Picard.  Jean-Luc Picard, and no, I'm not English, I'm French."  he 
said, forestalling the inevitable.  "However my language instructor was 
English and apparently I picked up his accent."
     She stared at him a moment, then started to smile, after a few seconds
the smile became a giggle, which she tried to hide behind one hand while she
waved the other one in the air, apparently asking him to wait on her recovery.
Finally she got herself under control.
     "I'm so sorry, really, it's just there this commercial... oh, never 
mind.  I take it you've already been quizzed about your accent a few times?"
     He wondered what a commercial was, and why it would cause her to laugh,
apparently at his name.  Then he realized what he'd done, and felt a slight
flush color his face.
     "Ah, yes, I have been asked about it several times already.  Really, I
feel I should apologize as well, I shouldn't have assumed you were going to 
ask me that."
     She smiled.  "Well, I probably would have, eventually, so there's no 
need to apologize.  Well met, Mr. Picard.  You were saying you wanted a job?  
I'm afraid I don't..."
     A loud crashing noise and a cry of pain spun both of them toward the
kitchen.  
     "Damn it,"  Rena swore, fists clenching, as it became apparent that
Sueann was crying, and fighting with someone in the back.  Without a word
to him she took off across the restaurant like an avenging Fury, despite 
her lack of stature.
     "Billy-Ray Wheeler!  Damn you, I thought I told you never to lay a 
hand on her again!"
     Picard hesitated for a moment, then followed her.  Old habits die hard.
The scene in the kitchen shocked him.  Sueann was cowering in a corner, a 
towel held to her bloody nose, and a huge, literally huge young man towered 
over her.  He was every bit as big as Worf.  He had blonde hair cut in quarter-
inch bristles, and a sunburned face, currently twisted into a vicious scowl.  
     "Oh yeah?"  he snarled, sarcastically.  "Who's gonna make me?"
     Rena picked up a knife from a counter, holding it slightly awkwardly.  
The expression on her face was chilling.  Utter determination.
     "I will if I have to, Billy-Ray."
     The hulk grinned.  "Come on then, give it a try, missy."
     Rena took a step forward.  Picard was getting angry.  It was obvious that
neither woman was trained in combat, and the man was easily twice their size.
Not only that, but Sueann was pregnant enough that if he knocked her to the
floor, or against one of the counters, she could be severely injured.  He 
decided it was time to intervene, and moved between the would-be combatants.
     "Hey!"  Billy-Ray said, focusing on Picard.  "What do *you* want, shrimp?"
     The epithet took him back years, to Robert and his best friend taunting
him.  Remembered anger augmented current, but he strove for calm. 
     "Don't you think you should stop this before someone gets seriously hurt?"
     Billy-Ray's pale blue eyes widened, showing bloodshot whites.  This close
Jean-Luc could smell the stale reek of alcohol, and some other repulsive odor 
he couldn't at first identify, though he knew he'd smelled it before.  
      "Oooh!  Well ain't you fancy!  I'm sooo scared!"  Billy-Ray's tone
was clearly mocking.  Picard's jaw tightened, but he refused to give in to
the urge to wipe the floor with the young man.
      "Why don't you go outside and cool off for a few moments?"
      "Why don't I just git you out of the way and let Miss Rena finish
what she started?"  Billy-Ray growled, lunging for Picard's shirt to yank
him closer.
      He never touched it.  Picard locked his hand around the other man's
arm, found the leverage point, and used Billy-Ray's momentum to throw him
over his shoulder to the floor.  In mid-motion, he remembered that Rena was
directly behind him, and twisted to one side to make certain Billy-Ray
didn't land on her, or the knife she held.  He felt muscles protest, and
knew that he was going to regret that move.  Billy-Ray slammed into the floor
with a crash, and lay there, stunned.  Picard spun to face him, in a defensive
stance.
      "Would you care to try that again?"  Picard inquired quietly.
      Billy-Ray stared at him for a moment, then his face darkened and
he rolled to his feet, moving quickly for such a large man.  Fists clenched,
he lashed out, but Picard avoided him easily.  He was big, and fairly fast, 
but he had absolutely no idea how to fight.  Unfortunately, he didn't seem 
to know that.  He kept trying.  Picard kept avoiding him.  Finally, tired of
the game, Jean-Luc realized his opponent was not going to stop until he
had to.  He executed a quick series of an-jitsu moves that left Billy-Ray 
dazed on the floor, with a bloody nose to match the one he'd given Sueann, 
a cut eyebrow, and possibly a bruised rib or two.  He lay there, clutching his 
side and groaning loudly.  Rena and Sueann stared at Picard, openmouthed, then 
Rena quietly put the knife back on the cutting board, and put her hands on 
her hips.
      "Get up, and get out, Billy-Ray  You're fired.  Send your brother 
tomorrow and I'll give him your pay, in cash, but you are never to set foot
in here again!  You hear me?  If I see you within a hundred feet of the 
Double R, I'll call Sheriff Kulik and file assault charges so fast it'll
make your head spin!"
      Billy-Ray stopped moaning and looked up, his expression almost
comically surprised.  "Fired?"
      "You heard me!  Now move your sorry ass outta here!"
      "But, I'm hurt...,"  he complained.
      "And who's fault is that?  You always were dumber than the north end of
a southbound mule!  I've had it!  You're history!"
      He got slowly to his knees, then stood, wiping the blood off his face
with his sleeve.  Then he scowled, and turned to look at Sueann, his eyes 
narrowed.
      "Come on, Sueann, you heard her."
      Rena seemed to gain stature as she bridled angrily.  "Oh no you don't!  
Sueann, you stay right where you are.  Don't you dare move an inch! You may 
have the world's worst taste in men, but we both know you're not stupid.  
If you stay with Billy-Ray, one of these day's he's gonna kill you."
      "But what about the baby?"  Sueann asked in a quavery voice, hand
curved protectively over her belly.
      "What about it?  You want him to kill it too?"
      Sueann flinched.  Picard felt extremely uncomfortable, realizing he
had intruded into something intensely personal.  Billy Ray clenched his 
fists, then shot a glance at Picard and let them open again.  He gave an 
exaggerated shrug.
      "It's not like it's mine," he said flippantly.  "Why should I care?"
      Sueann began crying again, burying her face in the bloody towel.  Rena 
stepped over to her and put an arm around her, patting her hair as if she 
were a child.
      "Sueann, you know I'll help you, I told you I would.  You don't need
Billy-Ray.  You don't even need me, really, you just need to learn to
believe in yourself."
      Sueann made some muffled response, and Rena seemed satisfied.  With
her arm still around the younger woman, she looked back at Billy-Ray.
      "Go on, get out."
      He glared at her for a long moment, then finally yanked off the dirty
apron he wore, threw it on the floor, and stomped out.  The only sound in
the room for several seconds was the slightly tinny music coming from a
small black box on a shelf near the door, then Rena broke the quiet.
      "Suanne, I want you to go upstairs and lie down for a bit, alright?
Is your nose broken?  Do I need to call Dr. Lacey and get you an appointment?"
      Suanne shook her head, and wiped her eyes with a clean corner of the
towel.   "No, it's ok.  He didn't break it this time.  I'll just go lie down,
like you said."
      "Good girl, go on now."  
      Rena watched her go, then ran a hand through her hair, looking around 
the kitchen.  Picard recognized her mood, he'd felt it too many times to 
not know it.  There was no name for it, but it loosely  translated to 
"I'm in charge of this, and what the hell do I do now?"  He found himself 
smiling sympathetically.  She looked back at him and caught it, and smiled 
back, ruefully.
      "Well, you've had quite an introduction to Ridge, haven't you?"
      "You could say that,"  he rubbed his shoulder, feeling the ache
of strained muscles.  He didn't think they were torn, but he had
definitely damaged them.  Rena noted the gesture, and her expression 
immediately became concerned.
      "Are you alright?  I didn't think he touched you..."
      "He didn't, but I went into that throw wrong, and I'm afraid I'm
going to regret it."
      She studied him a moment, then smiled and shook her head.  "You
know, I've never seen anyone do anything like that outside of a movie
before.  I don't suppose you could teach me?"
      Picard shook his head.  "It takes years of study, and I don't think
I'm going to be around long enough."
      "Ah well, c'est la vie."
      He brightened.  "Parlez-vous francaise?"
      She laughed.  "Oh, no.  I had some French in high school, but I've 
forgotten almost all of it, sorry.  I just know a few standard phrases 
that everyone knows.  You know... deja vu, c'est la vie, ou est la 
toilette, that sort of thing."  
      He couldn't help laughing in return.  "That is a rather eclectic 
assortment of phrases, you know."
      "I know,"  she looked around the room again, and sighed.  "I guess
I'd better get started on dinner prep, since it looks like I'm going to 
be doing the cooking again."
      Suddenly she looked back at him, her eyes narrowed speculatively.
      "You asked me if I knew of any jobs locally, didn't you?"
      "I did.  I'm afraid I'm stranded."  After a moment's consideration he
decided to tell her the story Barker had assumed, slightly modified.  
      "I was travelling with some friends, and we became separated, then 
my pack was stolen.  I have the clothes on my back, a bit over a dollar 
in cash after I pay for my lunch, and a pair of willing hands."
      She looked appropriately distressed. "I'm so sorry! That's terrible!"
Then she bit her lip, hesitated a moment, and plunged ahead.  "I don't 
suppose you can cook?  It seems I suddenly have an opening..."  she let
the sentence trail off, gazing at him hopefully.
      He stared back at her, trying not to grin at the idea.  It was
utterly ridiculous.  Totally preposterous.  But, he was surprised to 
find he was actually considering it.
      "I... well.  Not like this," he gestured around the kitchen.  "I 
learned to cook as a child, of course.  Maman made sure of that,"  he
smiled, remembering.  "She said no self-respecting Frenchman should 
neglect that part of his education.  But I've never cooked for more
than a small dinner party, and even that I haven't done in years."
      "It's like riding a bicycle... you never really forget.  And as
for this type of short-order cooking, I could teach you.  I just can't 
manage everything myself, and if you'd be willing to help me out for a 
week or two until I can hire a real cook, I would... well, I'd pay you, 
and on top of that I'd be eternally grateful!"
      "I..."  he almost accepted, then realized he couldn't make that
kind of promise.  He had no idea what Q would do next, or when. "I'd like 
to, but I don't know how long I will be able to stay."
      "Then just until you have to leave, however long that is."
      He considered.  She looked so hopeful...  
      "Please?"  she prompted.   "I'm afraid I'm desperate!  And if 
Billy-Ray comes back..."
      Again she failed to finish her sentence, but the implication was
obvious.  Somehow she had managed to say the exact thing guaranteed to 
push his acceptance.  He was about to say yes, when she upped the ante.
      "You'll need a place to stay, I have two spare rooms upstairs, and
you're welcome to one."
      He sighed.  "I do need work, and a place to stay.  I'll give it a
try, but I can't guarantee I'll be any good at it."
      She grinned broadly, knowing she'd won.  "I'll accept that, but you 
look like the kind of man who's good at whatever he sets his mind to."
      He smiled back.  "Not *everything,* no, but most things."
      "Name one thing you haven't been able to master," she challenged him,
crossing her arms over her chest and leaning back against the counter.
      He barely had to think about it.  "Painting."
      She looked startled.  "Painting?  As in art, not houses?"
      He nodded.  She lifted a hand and tapped her lower lip with a finger,
then shook her head.  "You surprised me with that one, Mr. Picard.  That's not
an answer I would have expected from your average hitchhiker.  So, you've 
actually tried?"
      "Oh, yes, much to the amusement of my cr... friends."  He barely caught
himself on that one.  Crew he would have had to explain.  She smiled again,
      "Well, the fact that you've at least tried puts you ahead of most people.
Have we got a deal?"
      He nodded. "We do."
      "Good,"  she held out her hand.  He clasped hers, and they shook hands.
He was surprised at the firmness of her grip.  She had big hands for a small
woman, strong hands.  As she let go, she chuckled softly, and shook a finger
at him.
      "You, Mr. Picard, are far too trusting.  You never asked me *how much*
I was going to be paying you."
      He lifted an eyebrow at her.  "And you, Ms. Taylor, are also a bit on
the trusting side, to be letting a man you met ten minutes ago share a 
room in your house."
      She cocked her head to one side and studied him, her green eyes bright 
and amused.  Her gaze swept down him, back up, and then held his own eyes 
for a moment before she replied.
      "True, true, though it's been at least fifteen minutes.  But not
only did Nate Barker send you here, I pride myself on being a pretty good 
judge of character as well."
      "As do I."
      "We're even then.  You'll acquit me of being a skinflint and I'll acquit
you of being a serial killer, ok?  Now, let's get to work."
      "On one condition."
      "That being?"
      "You must stop calling me Mr. Picard.  I keep looking around for 
my father."  Not to mention feeling like a lieutenant again, he thought
to himself.  He wasn't sure which was worse.
      "What shall I call you then?"
      "Jean-Luc."
      She grinned, and shook her head.  "I'm not sure I can do it without
laughing, and I doubt anyone else around here will make the effort.  How 
about Luke?"
      There she went again, laughing at his name.  He was beginning to feel
a bit offended.  "Luke would be fine, but would you please tell me what you 
find so amusing about my name?"
      "It's hard to explain.  Have you watched much tv since you came to the
U.S.?"
      "Teevee?"
      "You know, television, surely even the French call it tv."
      Television... that was an early broadcast entertainment medium.  "Oh, 
of course.  No, I can honestly say I haven't watched any television since 
arriving here."
      "Well, then you won't have seen it.  You'll catch it one of these days,
and you'll understand.  But if I'm to call you Luke, you've got to call me 
Rena, not Ms. Taylor, right?  I don't like sounding like my mother any more
than you like sounding like your father, I suspect."
      "As you wish.  What should I do?"
      She pointed at a large appliance which gaped open, exposing rows of 
dishes. utensils, and assorted pots and pans.  "You can start by helping me 
load the dishwasher.  We've got to get lunch cleaned up before we start on
dinner."
      "Show me what to do, and I'll do it."


                              ###


      Nine hours later, he was almost regretting having accepted her offer. 
He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so tired.  His feet hurt, his
back hurt, he felt like he was covered with a thin layer of grease, on top
of that his shoulder ached from his encounter with Billy-Ray, and he had an 
assortment of little nicks and burns on his hands.  He had, however, gained a 
vast feeling of respect for Rena Taylor.  From what he had learned from the 
talkative Sueann, she had been running the place almost single-handedly 
for two years.  Billy-Ray had been a new addition, hired to help out when
Sueann's pregnancy became enough advanced that Rena had needed to help with 
the wait duties.  There had been another waitress for awhile, but she had
decided to move to Houston, where there were more opportunities.  Since
then the Double R had been operating with a staff of three.  
   He didn't see how they did it day in and day out, especially not 
Sueann.  She said she was only seven and a half months along, but she looked 
a lot closer to term than that.  Of course he was judging that from his 
experience with Elines' two pregnancies, and since that entire incident had 
taken place in his mind, in reality he knew little about pregnancy.  
He was putting another load of dishes into the dishwasher when Rena came in 
from the dining room, rubbing her forehead, looking every bit as exhausted as 
he felt.  She leaned against the door of the big walk-in refrigerator for a 
moment, then straightened.
      "I've got to run Sueann home in the pickup, I'll be back in about ten 
minutes.  I'll show you where you're staying as soon as I get back."
      He nodded, and she grabbed a set of keys off a hook by the door and
left.  He finished with the dishes, wiped down the counters, then tossed
his apron and several dirty towels in the big cloth basket near the back 
door.  For a moment he stood looking outside through the narrow window in 
the door.  It seemed quite bright, the moon was about three-quarters full, 
so he opened the door and walked out into the night.
      It was still quite warm, though not blast-furnace hot as it had been
at noon.  He guessed that the temperature was still close to twenty-five.  For
ten-o-clock at night, that was pretty hot.  No wonder these people used their
air-cooling units constantly.  He wished he had a map, so he could figure out 
exactly where he was.  He knew *when* he was, and he had a general idea of
where, but he wanted more exact information than that.  Perhaps Rena would 
have an atlas he could borrow.  He noticed a small building nestled in
the trees.  Almost a shed, but better constructed.  The monotonous hum of an 
air-conditioner told him it couldn't be just a storage unit.  No one would 
waste the cooling on that.  He wandered over to investigate it.
      It was small, about three meters square, and had a large window high on 
one side, as well as a skylight.  He couldn't really see inside, and the door 
was padlocked, but he got the impression of a work surface, and several 
amorphous shapes shrouded in white.  It was obviously a workshop of some kind.  
He heard a vehicle enter the parking lot, gravel crunching beneath its wheels.
The engine stopped, and a door opened.  Guessing it was Rena, he walked around 
to that side of the building and stopped, watching her.   
      She was standing beside her 'pickup.' The door was open, and her folded 
arms were rested on the sill of the open window as she stared at the restaurant.  
Her expression was bleak and drawn.  He took a step toward her, wanting to 
offer help, then stopped.  It was none of his business.  But, that was just a 
meaningless phrase, wasn't it?  Twice today people who shouldn't care a thing 
about him had offered him assistance without hesitation.  He moved into the 
circle of light thrown by one of the tall lamps in the lot.
      "Can I help?"
      She turned quickly, with a gasp, obviously startled, then relaxed when
she saw who it was, and shook her head.
      "No, I'm fine.  I was just... missing the stars."
      His gaze narrowed, wondering just what she meant by that.
      "Having grown up here, I never realized what I was missing until I 
moved to Santa Fe.  You can really see the stars there, even the Milky Way.
Down here you never can, too much humidity I guess.  I look up, and I can't
see the stars.  It reminds me of things... oh, you don't want to hear this.
It's just... I get a little down sometimes."
      "I would like to hear, if you want to talk about it."  he prompted, 
taking a page from Counselor Troi's book. Usually he hated being asked that, 
but it seemed to fit at the moment.
      Rena closed the door of the vehicle and stepped away from it, toward
him.  "It's nothing you can help."
      "Sometimes talking helps, even if it offers no immediate solutions."
      She sighed, and ran her fingers through her hair, a gesture she made
frequently, then rubbed her hand down her neck, obviously massaging sore
muscles there.  He waited, and after a moment she shrugged.
      "Oh, hell, why not?  Did we throw out the coffee yet, or have we
still got some?"
      "I think I threw it out, but I could brew more," he offered, the 
coffeemaker being one of the few things he'd mastered.  That, and the
dishwasher.  She shook her head.
      "No, that's ok.  I don't need all that caffeine.  Let me nuke some
water and fix a cup of tea.  Would you like one?"
      "I would, thank you."
      Together they walked back into the restaurant.  Rena locked the front
door behind them, and turned out all the lights except those in the kitchen
area.  She filled two cups with water and set them on the turntable in the 
microwave, then opened a cupboard to display an assortment of boxes and tins,
then turned to him with a smile.
      "This is my secret vice.  No one around here drinks anything but Lipton,
but when I lived in Santa Fe I got to be a bit of a tea snob.  Of course, if I
was a *real* tea snob I wouldn't be nuking the water, but you have to make
concessions to practicality sometimes.  What would you like?"
      He scanned the labels, and smiled.  Several of his own favorite teas
were among the choices.  Lapsang Souchong, Gunpowder Green... Earl Grey.
He went for the familiar.
      "The Earl Grey, please."
      She nodded and pulled down that tin, then chose something called 
Tranquilitea for herself.  She measured a spoonful of the Earl Grey into 
an infuser and unwrapped one of the small filter bags of her own blend, just 
as the microwave beeped.  Pulling the cups out she set the teas to brewing 
and leaned back against the counter.
      "Y'know,"  she said, looking authoritative.  "You shouldn't drink Earl 
Grey if you're going to be out in the sun much.  The bergamot oil in it can 
make you photosensitive."
      "I'll keep that in mind," he said solemnly, hiding a smile.  For just
a moment she had reminded him of Bev Crusher.  That made him wonder when
Q was going to tire of the game and send him home.  He was a bit surprised
that the entity hadn't yet made a real appearance to taunt him.
      Rena picked up one of the little plastic bears whose presence on the
supply shelf had puzzled him.  Pulling off its little red "hat" she upended
it over her cup and squeezed.  Slowly a thin stream of amber fluid drizzled
from it.  He stared at it, wondering what it was, and why she was putting
it in her tea.  She saw his expression and laughed.
      "It's just honey, Luke!  What did you think it was?"
      "I had no idea.  Ah... why do you keep honey in a container shaped
like a bear?"
      She regarded him blankly for a moment, the frowned thoughtfully "You
know, I've never thought about it before.  We've just always done it.  It
never occurred to me to wonder why."
      "Then I suppose I'm just going to have to go curious."
      "I guess so... oh!  Of course!"  A big grin spread over her face.  
"Winnie the Pooh!"
      "Winnie the what?"  He asked, not sure he'd heard her correctly.
      "The Pooh!  Don't tell me they don't read Winnie the Pooh to little 
French children!  What a loss!  I have a copy you can borrow if you like.  
I even have the Disney version on video."
      "It's a children's story, then?"
      "A classic of children's literature, you really must read it!"
      "If you say so."
      "I do, come on upstairs, I've got to get off my feet, and so do you.  
We can talk in the living room."



                                  ###


      He followed her up a set of narrow stairs through he door at the top, 
which opened into a small sitting room.  All the furniture was nondescript, 
but comfortable-looking.  An art-nouveau style stained-glass lamp cast a warm
glow over the couch.  Three of the walls held built-in book shelves, all 
of which were full.  Nearly every other available surface was taken up with 
what appeared to be a collection of sculpture.  He stopped and studied the
one nearest to him, a small cold-cast bronze bust of an older woman's head 
and shoulders.  She looked somehow familiar to him, which was impossible, of 
course.  The work was very good, the detail exquisite.  She almost looked
as if she might speak.  He looked at the one next to it, a tree.  The style
was quite different, almost abstract, the finger marks quite visible, yet
somehow it was reminiscent of the first.  Another life study of a young man
sat just behind those two.  He looked up at Rena and found her watching him 
with a very peculiar expression on her face.  Still, quiet, curious, hopeful,
yet simultaneously almost fearful.  Suddenly something clicked.  The little
workshop out back, the sculptures in here....
      "These are all your work, aren't they?"
      She blushed, and nodded.  He shook his head, almost speechless.
      "These are wonderful!  Why on earth are you running a diner, instead
of concentrating on your art?"
      She looked away, not meeting his eyes.  "I'm needed here.  I can't just
close the place down and leave.  It wouldn't be fair."
      "To who?  It looks to me as if you're not being fair to yourself."
      Rena looked frustrated, and put her hands over her ears for just a second, 
then let them move back to clasp behind her neck as she struggled to find words
to express her feelings.
      "You don't understand!"  she finally said, reaching down to pick up the
first piece he had looked at.  She ran a finger down the nose, over the cheek
then simply held it, staring at it, unseeing.
      "No, I don't.  Your work is good, really, I've seen more art from more
places than you could possibly imagine, and I know your work is good.  More
than just good, it's wonderful,"  he eyed the little bust for a moment, and
suddenly realized why it looked familiar.  The contours of that face were
very similar to those of the living woman who held it.
      "That's your mother, isn't it?"
      She looked up, surprised.  "Yes, how did you..."
      "I can see the resemblance.  You're very like her."
      "No, I'm not.  She was taller, blonde..."
      "Those things are superficial.  You have her bone structure."
      She looked from him, back to the sculpture, a peculiar expression on
her face.  "Do you think so?"
      "Yes, I do."
      She laughed, shaking her head.  "You're the first person who's ever told
me that... besides her.  She told me that too.  I never saw it.  I always 
thought I looked like my dad... short, dark, round.  That's the Acadian blood 
in me.  He was from Louisiana,"  she looked up and smiled.  "I'm named for him,
sort of.  His name was Rene, though everyone around here called him Renny.  
Mom thought I might get teased, so she changed it a little."
      "I have a nephew named Rene,"  he said, for no reason other than to 
acknowledge her words.
      "In France?"
      He nodded.  There was no point in telling her it was a France that didn't
yet exist.
   "Do you miss them?"
   "Occasionally, though we've never been very close.  My brother and I...
well, we fought a great deal.  I'm afraid both of us have more than our share
of arrogance."
   She laughed.  "Well, that's one commodity that's in short supply around
here.  Gabe and I... that's my brother, anyway, we always got along fine.  He's
a forest ranger in Alaska.  Spends most of the year alone in a fire tower 
watching for forest fires.  I don't know how he does it, being alone so much."
   "Being alone is an art, it can be very pleasant."
   "It can also be very lonely,"  Rena said, putting the sculpture down 
carefully.  She yawned widely, then shook her head.  "I'm sorry, I meant to
stay up and talk, but I'm not going to make it.  Let me show you where you'll
be sleeping,"  she motioned for him to follow.
   She led him through the door at the opposite end of the "living room"
which opened onto a narrow hallway.  She stopped at the first door, her hand
on the doorknob.
   "This was my brother's room.  You'll be staying here.  The bathroom is 
at the end of the hall,"  she pointed.  "I'll get you some towels.  I think 
I might even have a spare package of razors around, but I'm afraid I don't 
have a spare toothbrush.  Maybe you can pick one up at Tucker's in the 
morning,"  She opened the door and proceeded into the room.
   Picard stared at her back for a moment.  Razors?  Toothbrushes?  He hadn't 
thought about those things.  His beard repressor was good for another few days, 
but if Q didn't send him home before that he'd need to start shaving, which 
was an unpleasent thought.  He realized that taking care of one's personal 
hygeine in the 20th century was quite different from doing so in the 24th.  
   "Luke?"  Rena prompted softly.
   "Hmm?  Oh, sorry, I was thinking,"  he stepped into the room.  It was a
small room, about half the size of his stateroom on the Enterprise, but it
looked comfortable.  A narrow bed with a bright patchwork quilt snugged up 
against one wall, a desk and chair were stationed beneath the window.  Beside 
the door was a dresser with a lamp on it.
   "I'm afraid it's a bit small..."  she began, apologetically.  
   "No, it's fine, thank you.  It's very nice,"  he smiled.  "Believe me,
it's better than the alternative."
   She laughed.  "I suppose it is, at that.  Well, let me go get those linens
and I'll make the bed up for you."
   "If you'll just show me where they are, I can manage."
   She looked at him blankly for a moment, then shook her head, her cheeks 
flushing as she smiled ruefully.  "Of course you can, I don't know what I
was thinking.  I guess I just got used to doing it all.  Come on, I'll show
you where the linens are kept."
   They went out into the hall again, and she pointed out the linen closet
which was next to the bathroom.  He accepted the armfull of linens from her 
and took them back down to "his" room and quickly made the bed.  The 
temperature of the living area was quite a bit warmer than it had been in
the restaurant, and he felt slightly sweaty.  He unbuttoned and untucked
his shirt to let the air at his skin, and picked up the towel she had given
him, thinking longingly of a shower.  The day's events had left him feeling
rather grimy, and it wasn't a feeling he liked.  Not only that, but the
prospect of a real *water* shower rather than a sonic one was even more
tempting.  It had been a long time.  He opened the door, took a step forward 
and ran smack into Rena who had her hand lifted to knock.  He caught hold of 
her as much to save his own balance as hers, and was surprised to feel an 
surge of physical response to her nearness.  He quickly let go of her, 
and stepped back, hoping she wouldn't notice.  She seemed a bit flustered,
but was also laughing.
      "I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting you to..."  she paused, her eyes flickering
down, then back up, and her flush deepened.  "I mean, oh, well, whatever.  I
guess neither of us was expecting to run into the other.  I was just coming to
tell you to feel free to borrow any clothes you need from Gabe's stash.  He
left most of his clothes here, since he doesn't need them as a park ranger.  
You and he are about the same size.  Of course, I don't expect you'll be 
wanting to wear his Metallica tee-shirts, but there are a few more... 
conventional items in there, too."
      He felt even more unsettled, and shook his head, frowning.  "I
don't understand why you're going to so much trouble for me."
      She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again, looking
almost as embarrassed and perplexed as he felt.  Finally she shrugged.
      "I guess I'm just one of those people that can't stand to see anyone
in need.  I have to help out.  But, remember, you're helping me, too."
      He realized that was all the explanation he was going to get and
accepted it at face value.
      "Well, despite that, I can't thank you enough for all you've done."
      She looked embarrassed.   "Oh, stop it!  Just forget it, ok?"
      "As you wish."
      She shot him an amused look.  "Wesley you're not," she said drily.
      That rattled him for a moment until he realized that she was making
a cultural reference he didn't understand, not referring to Bev's son.
      "Wesley?"  he ventured.
      "You know, from the Princess Bride... oh, you probably never saw that,
either.  I'm afraid I'm being an American chauvinist pig, aren't I?  One of 
these days you're going to have to sit down with my videos and be a vegetable. 
Then maybe you'll understand what I'm talking about.  Anyway, like I said, feel
free to borrow Gabe's clothes."
      "I will, thank you."
     She shook her finger at him chastisingly.  "I told you, no more of
that.  Now, goodnight, Luke."
     "Goodnight."
     As she walked away he thought he heard her mutter something that 
sounded like "Thank god my name isn't Laura."  He had no idea what she 
meant by that.

                                   ###


     Rena closed the door to her room behind her, then leaned back against
it with a deep sigh.  He would never know how close he had just come to being 
tripped and beaten to the floor.  What on earth was the matter with her?  She 
hadn't reacted to a man like this since... well, ever.  And she had known him 
barely half a day!  Was it just that she had been deprived of sophisticated 
company for so long that anyone with an ounce of intelligence looked good?
No.  It wasn't.  She knew that for certain.  There was a kind of aura about 
him that she was almost irresistably attracted to.  He was just about perfect; 
elegant, intelligent, self-confident, gorgeous... and that voice!  It made her 
knees weak just to hear him speak!  Damn, she wished he'd quit asking her why 
she was being nice to him.  Her ulterior motives were sure to slip out one of 
these times.  
     She began to undress, still thinking about her guest, feeling guilty for 
having manipulated him into staying.  At the same time she was feeling for 
all the world like a junior-high-schooler with her first real crush.  It was 
maddening, not to mention disconcerting, to find out at 34 that one's hormones 
could still overrule one's mind.  She thought she'd long ago learned how to 
control herself.  Of course, that control had never seriously been challenged 
before.  She was lucky she hadn't broken half the dishes in the diner the way 
her hands had been sweating.  She chuckled softly at herself, shaking her head,
as she dropped her dirty clothes into the hamper and searched her closet for 
something to put on.  Despite her inclinations, since she had moved back to
Ridge she no longer slept in the buff, just in case something came up during 
the night that she would need to deal with.  Living above the restaurant had 
its drawbacks, and the occasional nighttime interruption by a desperate 
traveller was one of them.  Normally she wore an old oversized t-shirt and a
pair of soft old shorts, but tonight she found herself holding the cambric 
nightdress she had bought in a fit of romanticism and money-wasting from a
mail-order lingerie place.  Not that he was going to see her in it, but it 
just felt... right.  She pulled it on, posed in front of her mirror, and
sighed morosely.  She didn't feel right, she felt stupid.  She took it off 
and changed into her usual sleeping attire.


                                   ###


From JULIA@Jetson.UH.EDU  Mon Aug 30 14:32:45 1993
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Date: Mon, 30 Aug 1993 14:09:12 -0500 (CDT)
Subject: A'la Q, Part 3, by Kellie Matthews-Simmons & Julia Kosatka
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Status: O

  Jean-Luc woke up fast, instantly alert with the sort of adrenalin rush
that happens when your subconscious thinks something is wrong.  Where
the hell was he?  A small room, cluttered with old-looking furniture. 
Wooden doors with handles on them, sunlight streaming in the window. 
Sunlight?  He stood up and moved aside the gauzy curtain that veiled the
window, and remembered.  Q.  Texas.  Rena.  He took a deep breath and
closed his eyes, willing the shakes to go away.  In his sleep he had totally
forgotten about his little adventure a la Q.  What was Q up to?  Why
hadn't he shown himself, like he usually did?  It was strange.  It was also
full morning.  Why hadn't Rena woken him? 
      Quickly he pulled on his jeans and buttoned them ("Buttons," he
thought, "how archaic!"), and picked up his shirt.  It was rather the worse
for wear, and recalling Rena's comment about borrowing her brother's
clothes, he opened the closet.  The sharp, resinous scent of cedar filled his
senses as he sorted through the garments.  He found a short-sleeved shirt
in a khaki shade that looked appropriate and tried it on, finding it a bit
large, but comfortable.  He reached for his shoes, and wondered where he
could find clean socks.  Taking a wild guess he opened one of the dresser
drawers and found it full of short-sleeved shirts with loud artwork printed
on them.   He chose another drawer at random, and found what he was
looking for.  Pulling out a pair of socks he put them on, then donned the
white athletic shoes which Q had furnished.  He was grateful for their
comfort, considering the amount of standing he had done the day before,
and was likely to do again today.  He made a quick check in the mirror to
make sure he hadn't buttoned anything one-off, and left the room. 
Hurrying downstairs, he found... no one.  The restaurant was quiet and
dark.  He stood there for a moment, feeling foolish.  He had assumed the
diner served breakfast, but obviously he had assumed incorrectly.  Rena
hadn't woken him because she wasn't up yet, herself.  He had time to kill,
and he knew exactly where to do it.
      Quietly he went back upstairs, and headed for the bookshelves. 
Much of what he found was fiction, but one shelf-unit seemed dedicated
to reference type materials.  Dictionaries, a set of encyclopedias dated
1962 with "year-book" updates through 1975, and an atlas, were among his
finds there.  He pulled out the atlas and looked up Texas, finally locating
Ridge.  It was quite near the Gulf coast east of Houston.  He closed the
atlas and returned it to its place.  A bit further on he found what appeared
to be textbooks on various subjects ranging from astronomy to art history,
but they were all several years old, and would not bring him up to speed
on current events in any case.  He spotted a promising-looking stack of
thin, glossy folios with the word "Newsweek" blazoned across the top.  He
picked up the top one, and found it was dated only a few days previous. 
He smiled, picked up the stack and sat down on the couch with them to
read. 
                                ###
      Rena pushed the snooze delay on the alarm clock again, but the
radio didn't go off.  She moaned into her pillow, realizing that meant she
had already hit it twice.  It was morning.  She hated mornings.  With a sigh
she turned onto her back and stretched, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. 
Get up, get showered, put on some clothes... the usual routine beckoned. 
She yawned and maneuvered herself into a sitting position.  Coffee first. 
She had to have coffee.  That meant going downstairs, not an easy task
first thing in the morning.  She combed her fingers through her hair and
managed to stand, her feet feeling puffy as they always did in the
mornings.   
  "Feet, move,"  she commanded.  They obeyed, sluggishly.  She wandered 
down the hall and into the family room, heading for the stairs.  Halfway
through the room she suddenly became aware that she wasn't alone, and
froze in place for a moment, feeling quite alert as a rush of panic swept
through her.  Half-afraid to turn, her suspicions were confirmed when the
other person spoke.
  "Good morning."
  Oh, god.  She turned slowly, her face fiery with embarrassment.  She had
totally forgotten about him.  The slightly amused manner in which he was
regarding her over the top of an old issue of Newsweek fanned the
conflagration in her face to spread lower.  She could almost feel her toes
blushing.  He was dressed, damn him, and looking completely composed
and at home on her sofa, his feet propped against the footstool, and his
lap full of magazines.
  "Uh..."  she said articulately,  "..hi."
  "How are you this morning?"  he asked, lowering the magazine.
  "Not awake,"  she said with a rueful grin.  "I forgot you were here."
      He smiled.  "To be honest, I forgot I was here too, for a few
moments.  When I woke, I had no idea where I was.  Then when I
remembered, I thought I must be late to start work, but then I went
downstairs and realized you must not open for breakfast."
      She felt even stupider, if that was possible.  "Oh, god, I'm sorry!
I never thought to tell you our hours!  We only serve breakfast on 
weekends any more, since we didn't get enough weekday traffic to make
it worth my while getting up that early.  I am *not* a morning person."
      "I can tell,"  he said, deadpan.  "Can I do anything for you?"
      For a moment she was tempted... too tempted.  She started to blush
again.  "No, thank you.  I was just going to go start a pot of coffee.  I'm
afraid I need a jump-start in the mornings."
      His eyes narrowed, and after a moment he shook his head.
      "Jump-start?"
      She realized he didn't understand the metaphor, and hastened to
explain before he jumped to some unsavory conclusion.  "You know, like a 
dead battery.  You hook up cables to one that's good and get the car started, 
then it starts charging."
      He thought about that for a moment, then nodded.  "I see.  Can I
make the coffee for you?  I think I should be able to manage it by myself,
if you can bring yourself to trust me down there alone."
      She let herself be infected by his good humor, though it wasn't her 
normal morning mood. She grinned       
      "Oh, I suppose I could trust you *that* far.  And that would be really 
nice, thank you.  I'm not sure I could make it down the stairs in one piece,
since my legs don't fully wake up until after the caffeine hits the system."
      "It would be my pleasure,"  he said, and carefully moved the stack of 
magazines aside and stood up.  She moved to let him by and watched him 
descend the stairs, admiring the view for a moment, then turned and raced
down the hall to the bathroom.  One glance in the mirror confirmed her
worst fears.  She looked exactly like she had just woken up from a coma. 
And the sloppy-looking t-shirt and shorts didn't help matters at all.  If only
she had left the nightgown *on* last night!  Her one chance to look all
sleepily romantic, and she'd blown it.  Damn!  She studied her face in the
mirror, noticing she had wrinkle-marks on one cheek from the sheets, and
sighed.  She would probably have looked like a romantic coma victim in
that nightgown, anyway.  She turned on a trickle of water in the tub to let
it warm up, and brushed her teeth while she waited.   
      


                           ###



      Picard measured ground coffee into the paper filter in the basket
of the coffee-maker and turned it on, watching to make sure the water was
dripping into the little opening at the top of the pot below, instead of
hitting the rim and running off down the side.  The first time he had used
the machine he had learned the hard way to make absolutely sure the pot
was in the right position.  Today, it was.  He replaced the big canister of
coffee in the refrigerator, and noticed a bowl of somewhat sad-looking
strawberries left from the day before.  On impulse, he picked up the bowl
and took it to the sink, where he washed, hulled and sliced the berries. 
Sprinkling a little sugar over them, he stood for a moment, wondering if
he could remember the recipe.  It had been years, even decades.  The last
time he had done it, his mother had still been alive.  
      He scanned the kitchen, looking for ingredients.  Rena and Suanne
had done their best to familiarize him with where everything was kept, and
he remembered most of them.  He found two large bowls, a wire whisk,
butter, eggs, sugar, milk and flour.  Taking an orange from the plastic
crate in the pantry, he rolled it lightly on the counter and sliced it in half,
squeezed half the juice over the berries, and half into a cup.  He found a
grater and managed to produce a spoonful of fairly serviceable orange
zest.  At that point he stopped for a moment, hoping the attempt wouldn't
turn out to be a disaster.  He recalled Rena's words about him looking as
if he could master anything he set his mind to and laughed softly.  That,
so far, was an unproven theorem.



                           ###



      Showered and dressed, Rena stood for a moment in front of her
closet, eyeing her "city" clothes regretfully.  She wanted very much to dress
up today, but it didn't make sense.  What made sense was what she had
on, her usual daily uniform of jeans, and a man's white v-necked undershirt
(Sold in packs of three for seven dollars at K-Mart), and her tennis shoes. 
To wear anything fancier while cooking, cleaning, and bussing tables was
madness; but oh, how she wanted to be mad, just for awhile.  It seemed
like she hadn't done anything strictly for herself for almost four years now. 
And she wasn't going to start now.  She sighed and made a last swipe at
her hair with her brush, and headed downstairs to get her coffee.  She
smiled, surely even Luke, who seemed to have never seen a kitchen
appliance before, would have managed to make a pot of coffee by now.
      As she opened the door to stairwell she smelled the distinctively
silky scent of coffee, and something else besides.  Something... sweet,
orangey, breadish... she couldn't quite identify it.  It made her hungry,
whatever it was.  She took the steps a bit faster than normal, and rounded
the corner into the kitchen to find Luke standing in front of the stove, one
of her omelette pans held in one hand just above a low flame.  As she
watched he made a motion with his hand, and flipped the contents of the
pan like a pro, and chuckled.  She stared for a moment, feeling herself
smile in response to his laughter.  Leaning against the doorframe, she
assumed a nonchalant pose.
      "Having fun?"  she queried.
      She had to give him credit.  He didn't jump or flinch, or drop the
pan, though he did turn quite quickly.  Good reflexes.  She saw his gaze
move down her, then back to her face, and wished again she were wearing
something more interesting.  Of course, it was probably just an automatic
reflex, and he would have done the same had she been male.  He grinned
at her.
      "Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.  I haven't done this in years, I had
forgotten how much fun it can be.  Have you any brandy?"
      She blinked, puzzled.  "Brandy?"
      "Yes, you know, brandy.  It's a liquor, it generally comes in a bottle,
about 100 proof, amber colored..."
      She rolled her eyes, shaking her head.  "I know what it is, I just
wondered what you wanted it for."
      "You'll see... if you have any, that is."
      "A secret eh?   Well, as long as you're not planning to swill it while
you cook..."
      "Ms. Taylor, I am offended!"  he said melodramatically.  "One never
swills brandy, it just *isn't* done!"
      "Well, in that case let me see what I can find.  I have an assortment
of liquor from my Santa Fe days that I think might include some brandy. 
Of course, you have to promise you won't tell Mrs. Sewell on me.  She'd
have the minister over here to talk to me about the evils of drink."
      "I promise,"  he put his hand, the one with the spatula in it, over his
heart and looked quite serious.  She giggled and went back upstairs to look
for the brandy.  
      It was exactly where she remembered, and covered with a layer of
dust.  She took the bottle into the bathroom and wiped it down with a
damp washcloth, then took it downstairs to him.  He took it from her hand
and steered her out to a table in the dining room where a cup of coffee
sat steaming.  He had set a small metal pitcher of cream beside the cup. 
Rena was touched that he had remembered she liked it white.  In point of
fact, she'd been teased all her life for using coffee as an excuse to drink
warm milk with sugar in it.  As she made adjustments to the coffee he
disappeared back into the kitchen.  She drank slowly, savoring both the
beverage, and the unaccustomed pleasure of having someone waiting on
*her* for a change.  
      She was almost finished with the cup when he reappeared and set
a plate in front of her.  He had arranged four crepes on it, and a fan of
orange slices.  A drizzle of deep pink crossed the crepes in an artfully 
random pattern.  She looked up at him in surprise.
      "You expect me to eat this?  I couldn't possibly!  It would ruin it!"
      "You have to eat it, this is the first time I've made it in well over
ten years.  I have to know if I did it right."
      "Didn't you taste it?"
      "Yes, but I need an unbiased opinion."
      "Well, then, I guess I'll have to destroy this work of art.  I'll do it,
but only on one condition."
      "That being?"
      "You have to join me."
      "I will, I dislike breakfasting alone."
     She waited for him to join her before picking up her fork.  Slices of
white-hearted strawberries spilled from the golden casing as she cut into
it. She forked up a bite and closed her eyes in bliss as she chewed.  When
she opened her eyes again, she found him regarding her quizzically.  Her
quirky sense of humor got the better of her.
     "Not bad,"  she allowed, teasing him.  "Mmmhmm,"  she took another
bite, and managed to refrain from moaning as she ate it.  "Not bad
at all.  Of course, if you smothered it with cool whip and jacked up the
sugar content about a hundred and fifty percent, we might even have a
best seller."
     He looked appalled, and she couldn't keep her face straight any
longer.  She laughed and put her hand on his.  "I'm teasing you, Luke! 
For heaven's sake, grant me a modicum of taste!  It's wonderful!  The
subtle hint of orange is lovely, and is that coriander I taste?"
     He looked unutterably relieved as he nodded.  "Oh, thank god, I
thought for a moment that you were serious!  And yes, it is coriander."
     She nodded.  "I thought so.  You'd better not do this every morning
or I'm going to get spoiled."
     He looked as if he was going to say something, then he stopped
himself and shook his head.  She suddenly realized she still had her hand
over his, and snatched it back, feeling embarrassed.  She tried to cover it
with a joke.
     "Sorry, I forgot it was there.  Are you going to report me for sexual
harassment now?"
     He looked up at her in surprise, his eyes wide.  She realized for the
first time that they weren't brown, but hazel, in fact at the moment they
were almost light enough to be called gray.  
     "Sexual harassment?"  he queried, sounding astonished.  "Was that
your intention?"
     "I... ah..."  Rena stared back at him, half tempted to admit that if she
weren't quite so ethical she might just consider it.  Then she realized they
were having a culture clash again.  He had no idea what she was talking
about.  She hastened to explain.
     "Oh, heavens no!  I was joking again!  Damn, I keep forgetting that
you come from a completely different community.  I guess they don't have
that problem over there, or at least, it doesn't make the news."
     "What problem?"
     "Employers extorting sexual favors from their employees... oh, let's
just drop it, I never was much good at telling jokes."
     "No, wait,"  he stopped her, looking incredulous.  "Is that really a 
problem here?"
     "Sometimes, in some places.  Usually it's men hassling women, though."
     "You're not joking now?"
     "No, absolutely not."
     "But that's barbaric!"
     She was so pleased by his reaction that she almost smiled, but she was 
afraid he would misinterpret it, so instead she nodded.
      "Yes, it is.  But slowly, but surely, things are changing.  I hope, 
anyway.  They have to."
      "They will,"  he assured her.  Oddly, she believed him, though he
could be no more certain of the future than she was.  She looked down at
her plate and realized she was letting her breakfast get cold, and it was too
good to waste.  She picked up her fork again, and gestured for him to do
the same.
      "Eat, eat!  You're gettin' skinny!"  she told him, in her best Jewish-
Mother accent.  
      He looked a bit puzzled, but smiled and complied.  They finished
the meal in a companionable silence.



                      ###



      As he ate, Picard reflected on the fact that he was growing rather
fond of Rena Taylor.  She seemed to be a woman of uncompromising
good sense, she was intelligent, well spoken, strong-willed and had a good
sense of humor.  The fact that he also found her physically attractive was
an added bonus... or detriment, depending on how he looked at it.  He had
no idea how long he would be stranded in this time.  It could be as short
as minutes, or as long as decades.  Q was completely unpredictable.  He
couldn't get involved with someone... not when he didn't *know*, and
couldn't explain.  He wondered if this attraction was part of Q's script, but
had no way of knowing.  The whole incident might not even be real, it
could all be in his head, like his time with Eline, or the time Q had let him
relive a part of his youth.  
      In point of fact, he was having a hard time convincing himself to be
wary and tense.  The whole incident was almost like a glorified holodeck 
adventure.  Earth's twentieth century was not a period he would have
chosen on his own, but it held its own appeal to the historian's eye.  It was
the birthplace of many of the ideas which had come to final fruition in his
own time.  He was actually *enjoying* himself!  He suspected that wasn't
what Q had had in mind when he had sent him here.  He had enjoyed the
simple activity of cooking, the absence of need for constant decision-
making.  It was wonderful!  Even the altercation with Billy-Ray had been
fun, in a rather primitive, hormonal sort of way.  He almost laughed,
knowing how annoyed Q would be when he realized he'd given his nemesis
a much needed vacation.  
      Picard's eyes and thoughts came back to Rena, and the one thing
about her he found perplexing.  Despite her obvious intelligence and
education, she appeared to have a bit of a problem with self-esteem.  Her
earlier comment about becoming "spoiled" had been an indication of that. 
He had almost told her that she was entitled to a little spoiling, considering
the amount of self-sacrifice her last several years had entailed, but he had
thought better of it, suspecting it would earn him an argument.  Despite
the almost instant closeness he felt with her, he was a stranger, and had
no right to go telling her how to live her life, no matter how much he
wanted to.  Like her art.  He couldn't believe she was just letting her
sculptures collect dust in an upstairs room where no one could see them! 
The very least she could do would be to display them in the diner for
others to enjoy.  He wondered if he could possibly talk her into doing that
much, before he had to leave.  
      That thought reminded him of how uncertain his time was.  He
took a last sip of his tea, and took a breath to speak, but Rena beat him
to it.  She pushed her plate away with a regretful sigh.
      "Well, this was lovely, but we've got to get busy or we won't be
ready for the lunch crowd,"  she ran a finger through the strawberry juice
on the plate and licked it off.  The way she did it, eyes closed in
enjoyment, caused a surprisingly sensual reaction in him, but a moment
later she picked up her plate and cup and took them into the kitchen,
which gave him a moment to recover before he followed with his own
detritus.  As he came through the doors she looked up from rinsing her
plate and grinned.
      "Now that I know you know your way around a stove, you get to
learn the ins and outs of being a fry-cook.  You should have let me go on
believing you were a rank amateur, you know.  I'd have been easier on
you.  Would you start water boiling in the big stock pot, and throw in the
bowl of chicken scraps from the refrigerator?   The soup has to be the first
thing started, and it's my 'speshee-ally-tee della masson,' as it were,"  she
waved a hand regally, grinning as she said it to make certain he knew she
was deliberately  mispronouncing it.  "Why, folks come from miles around
for my chicken soup, even in the summer."
      "I can understand that,"  he said, intending to complement her on
it, but she laughed, interrupting him.
      "Yep, so can I.  I'm the only restaurant in the county!"
      He couldn't let that pass.  Setting down the big pot he had just
picked up to fill, he put his hands on his hips, his expression grave.
      "I realize this is a touch presumptuous of me, Ms. Taylor, but there
is absolutely no reason for you to belittle yourself!  No matter how much
you try to disguise it as humor, that is what you're doing, and it's
completely unwarranted!  You're plainly a fine businesswoman, otherwise
this place would not still be open.  Why can't you accept that?"
      She stared at him, her eyes wide and a little hurt, and he started to 
regret having said it.  Then she sighed and shook her head, running a hand
through her hair in an already-familiar gesture.
      "I... don't know why, I really don't.  I guess... I just don't *feel*
competent at it.  This isn't what I had planned to do with my life; I just 
ended up doing it by default."
      "What did you plan to do?"
      She glanced ruefully toward the back door, and he knew what she
was going to say before she said it.  He wasn't wrong.
      "I planned to be a sculptor, and I had a pretty good start at it,
when everything fell apart here.  When the oil boom went bust, the town
started to die, and it took Dad with it.  Mom was a wreck, she couldn't
handle things by herself after he was gone.  Then when she died too...
there were too many people counting on me to keep things going.  I
couldn't just quit and go back to Santa Fe, it wouldn't have been right."
      "For whom?"  he asked quietly, "Who is this amorphous 'them?'
Your parents?"
      She laughed, a short, unhappy laugh.  "My parents are dead."
      "But are they?  You seem to be living their dream, not your own. 
The dead can be very powerful."
      He knew a lot about how influential the dead could be. It took little
effort to summon to mind people whose deaths he had been directly, or
indirectly responsible for.  
      Rena's eyes focused on something distant, and after a moment she
shook her head vehemently.
      "I can't talk about this right now.  I've got a diner to run,"  she 
brushed past him on her way to the pantry, and he almost reached out to
catch her arm and force her to listen to him, then thought better of it,
reminding himself for the second time that morning that he had no right
to interfere with her life.  He wasn't her keeper, in fact he wasn't her
anything.  He was simply an employee.  He let the subject drop and turned
to fill the stockpot with water.


                           ###


      Rena spent the day in a kind of self-induced schizophrenia.  She
kept busy bussing tables, waiting on customers during Sueann's frequent
breaks, and teaching Luke the ins and outs of burritos, burgers and chili. 
But all day long her mind was only half there, the other half of it was
worrying at Luke's words like a dog at a bone.  Why *was* she still in
town running the Double R instead of back in Santa Fe?  It was a
question she had avoided asking herself for two years, yet Luke had zeroed
in on it with unerring precision.  
      It wasn't until late in the afternoon that the answer finally began to
percolate through the filters of denial.  She was spelling Luke in the
kitchen so he could have a break, and watching him perched on one of the
counter stools next to Larry Cox involved in a lively conversation about
strategy and tactics in World War Two, when it came to her.  She *liked*
Ridge.  Well, parts of it anyway.  She liked the small-town nature of it, the
fact that everyone knew everyone else, and watched out for each other. 
She had never had that in Santa Fe.  She had known her own small circle
of friends, but aside from that it had been just another city.  She liked
the... human-ness of it.  Unfortunately the one thing she had then, she
didn't have now.  Friends.  People who were her peers, not her
dependents.
      She finished cleaning off the grill and stood at the sink. washing her
greasy hands and contemplating her epiphany.  She really did miss having
friends, but most of her contemporaries had moved away from Ridge years
ago, when the oil industry fell apart.  Even if they had stayed, most of
them weren't people she could be friends with.  She thought of Shelly, and
Mario, and Travis, and Jeannie, and Lanelle, all back in Santa Fe
bemoaning their lives there as much as she had complained about her own
in Ridge, and wondered if anyone was ever really happy with their lives. 
It didn't seem like it.  With a sigh she shut off the water and dried her
hands.
      Glancing out into the diner, she saw that Luke and Larry had
apparently finished their conversation; or else Ruth had decided her father
had finished, whether or not he had.  She was tugging Larry toward the
door.  Rena smiled as she watched Luke usher them to the door and
gallantly hold it open for them.  Ruth preened, apparently unaware that 
the gallantry was not aimed specifically at her.  Luke stood a moment
watching them through the door, and Rena found herself studying him
through the serving slot with a sculptor's eye.  Even when he was relaxed,
his compact frame held an intriguing sense of coiled tension, and he stood
beautifully.  His face was all planes and angles, the late afternoon sun
highlighting the highest of them.  She found her fingers itching for a cool,
silky mound of clay, or a sketchbook, anything with which she could
capture what she was seeing.  Not for the first time she wondered who he
really was, and what he was doing working in a two-bit diner in a dying
town.  She sensed that there were depths in him that she would never get
to see, that perhaps no one would ever see. 
      As if he felt her eyes on him, he turned away from the door and
looked straight at her.  She managed to smile and wave, and hoped her
flushed cheeks would be attributed to the heat in the kitchen.  He smiled
back, and walked toward the kitchen.  She watched the doors swing open
as he walked through them, and felt an incredible urge to be reckless.  She
looked around for Sueann, and didn't find her, she was probably still
upstairs on the couch for her mid-afternoon nap.  Larry and Ruth had
been their last lunch customers, and the dinner rush wouldn't start for at
least an hour and a half.  They were alone, not a soul around to hear her
make a complete and utter fool of herself.  Before she could lose her
nerve, she did it.
      "Luke, would you pose for me?"
      She got the distinct impression that he very nearly looked over his
shoulder to see who she was talking to.  After half a second's hesitation,
he touched his chest.
      "Me?"
      "I don't know why I didn't see it before, but I just now realized what
a great model you would make!"
      "Me?"  he repeated, somewhat incredulously
      "Yes, you!  Do you see anyone else in the room?"
      "Ah, no.  I just... why me?"
      "Because you're *interesting*, that's why!  The way you stand, the
way you hold yourself, your face... you'd make a wonderful subject."
      "I... never thought of myself as an artist's model before.  I'm not
sure I'm very comfortable with the idea..."
      "Nobody is, the first time, but really, it's completely professional. 
You said you'd tried painting, surely you work from  life models!"
      "Well, yes, but..."
      "Then you know, when I'm working, I won't see *you,* I'll see a
model posing."  
      Picard eyed Rena dubiously.  She might be able to do that, he
doubted he could.  
      "Please?"  her tone was innocently wheedling.  "Pretty please, with
ice cream and chocolate sauce on top?"
      He had to smile at that, but he still couldn't quite bring himself to
commit.
      "I don't know how long I'll be here, my... friend could return for me
at any time."
      "I know.  How about this... if you're still here on Monday, that's the
only day we close the diner, you'll pose?"
      Her insistence was wearing, and he didn't really have a good excuse
not to do it.  With a sigh, he nodded.
      "Very well, if I'm here, I'll do it, but just once."
      She grinned, obviously elated, then just as suddenly frowned. 
"Once?"  She shook her head.  "Not enough.  It usually takes several
sittings."
      He started to protest, but she suddenly snapped her fingers, 
interrupting him.  "I know.  I've got dad's old polaroid.  I'll take a 
couple of pictures to work from when I don't have you live.  How's that?"
      Pictures?  He wasn't entirely sure he liked that idea either, but
if it would lessen the amount of time he had to spend posing...
      "I suppose that would be all right," he said reluctantly.
      "Great!"  She smiled, then her expression turned mischievous. "By
the way, Luke, from what I can see, you've got no reason at all to be so
modest, Trust me."
      He couldn't help returning that smile.  "Is that supposed to make
me feel more at ease?"  he asked facetiously.
      She winked.  "Nope." 
With that parting shot, she turned and was gone through the double doors,
tub in hand, to start bussing tables.  He stared after her for a moment, still
smiling, then shook his head and turned back to the stove and stirred the
soup. He chuckled.  None of his crew would ever believe *this* story.  He
wasn't sure he believed it himself.  He kept expecting to wake and find it
was all a dream.  Rena in particular.  
      Feeling an unaccustomed wistfulness, he found himself thinking of
some of the women with whom he had pursued relationships.  Why was
it that he always fell in love with women he couldn't stay with?  On second
thought, he decided he would rather not know the answer to that.  It
probably would tell him more about himself than he really wanted to
know.  There were dishes to load, and at the moment that took
precedence over introspection.



                           ###



      It had been a long, long day, Picard reflected as he fell back across
his bed with a sigh.  Despite having just taken a hot shower, his feet hurt, 
his back hurt; hell, even his knees felt stiff!  For the first time in his life he
felt his age, and considering that in this century people died younger, that
was relatively older than he really was.  A convoluted thought, if ever there
was one.  He smiled wryly, and sat up, realizing that despite his physical
tiredness, he didn't feel much like sleeping.  His mind was wide awake, it
was just his body that wanted rest.  He remembered Rena's library, and
the obvious solution presented itself.  He would borrow a book and read
until his mind was ready to sleep too.
      He pulled on his jeans, thinking absently that they were due for a
cleaning, despite the white chef's aprons Rena made him wear.  So far,
though, he hadn't seen anything that even resembled a processor.  He
would have to ask Rena.  Her clothing always looked immaculate, so there
had to be something available.
      He ventured out of his room, casting a glance at Rena's door.  No
light showed beneath it, she was probably already asleep.  Quietly, he
crossed the few steps to the "family room" door, and opened it.  To his
surprise, the room was neither dark nor deserted.  An object he had
mentally dismissed as some sort of viewscreen emitted a thin, bluish light,
and small figures moved on it.  Rena sat before it, sprawled rather
inelegantly on the sofa, staring blankly at the moving images.  Curious, he
studied the screen to see what she was watching, and froze, a gasp of
astonishment escaping him.  The individuals on the screen were wearing
Starfleet uniforms!  A decades-old design, granted, but it was instantly
recognizable.  His sound had caught Rena's attention, and she looked up,
grinning sheepishly.
      "I know, it's an awful waste of time, but I just can't resist Star Trek. 
I suppose I've shocked you now..."
      He dragged his gaze from the screen long enough to shake his
head, a bit distractedly.  
      "No, not at all... ah, what did you say it was called?"
      "Star Trek.  You don't mean to tell me you've never seen it!"
      He shook his head again, scrutiny riveted to the drama being played
out on the small screen.
      "No, I haven't.  What is it?"
      "It's a twenty-some year old science fiction television program, not
to mention American cultural phenomenon.  I can't believe you've never
heard of it!  I thought just about everyone in the world knew about Star
Trek!  Don't they show it on French television?"
      "I don't know, I... never watched much television there,"  he
answered truthfully.  She grinned.
      "Ah, the intellectual type, just as I suspected.  Well, sit down and
let me introduce you to an American institution;"  she gestured at the
screen.  "Meet the stalwart crew of the U.S.S. Enterprise.  The guy in the
gold shirt is Captain James T. Kirk, galactic womanizer and general all-
around-hero sort of guy.  To his right, the one with the pointy ears, is the
inestimable Mr. Spock, his coolly logical Vulcan first officer.  On his left
is the irascible Dr. Leonard "Bones" McCoy..."  she let her sentence trail
off as she finally noticed his expression.  "Luke?  Are you okay?"  Sit
*down*!"*
      He sat. suddenly realizing how peculiar his behavior must seem to
her.  He couldn't very well tell her the *real* reason why  he had reacted
as he had, so he quickly tried to compose a good fake one.
      "I.. ah, I'm sorry, I just thought for a moment that I recognized one
of those men."
      She grinned.  "I'd be surprised if you didn't!  They're famous!"
      "No, I meant, personally.  The resemblance is rather remarkable."
      "Which one?"
      "The... one in blue, Amb... I mean, Mr. Spock."
      "Oh, that's Leonard Nimoy."
      He looked at her, puzzled.  "Excuse me?"
      She gestured toward the screen.  "The actor who plays Spock.  His
name is Leonard Nimoy.  Is that who you thought it was?"
      "Oh, no, it's not."  
      Actors, that explained some, but not all.  How on Earth was it
possible that a mid-twentieth-century fictional drama could have so
precisely predicted events which would not take place for more than two
centuries?  And the resemblances were uncanny!  Especially the actor
portraying Spock.  Picard had met Spock twice in person, not to mention
having shared one of the most intimate of all experiences, a mind-meld,
with Spock's father Sarek.  Yet, despite all that, had he not known he was
watching an actor, he might not have realized it was *not* Spock.
      He sat back against the sofa, still tense, and watched in complete
amazement as the dramatists enacted vignettes from a famous incident,
one in which the original starship Enterprise had encountered a Romulan
cloaking device in use for the first time.  He had read about it during his
days at the Academy, and, apparently, so had someone in this era.  He
wondered abruptly if it could be come sort of bizarre joke of Q's.  If so,
what exactly was it supposed to prove?  A few moments later the story was
interrupted by a series of advertisements, and Rena looked over at him.
      "So, what do you think?"
      "It's... interesting."
      "This one is sort of a remake of an old film called Run Silent, Run
Deep.   It looks awfully dated now, and the effects are kind of cheesy, but
it's still a lot of fun.  I understand there's a new Star Trek series out, but
I haven't seen it.  We don't get it out here in the boonies unless you have
satellite, which I don't."
      Picard bridled slightly.  Cheesy effects?  Just because the technology
was a bit outdated didn't mean it was "cheesy."  Suddenly her last sentence
sank in.
      "A *new* series?"  he ventured, with some trepidation.
      Rena nodded.  "So I hear.  Like I said, I've never seen it, but from
what I hear it's pretty good... better than the original, some people say,
though there's a lot of quibbling about that.  No one seems to argue that
the old one was better acted, just that it was better plotted."
      "Does it involve the same characters?"  Picard asked, despite his
disquiet.
      "No, it's a whole new group, I think."
      Jean-Luc had a feeling he did *not* want to know who those
characters were.  It *must* be Q's doing, what else could it be?
      The program resumed. and over the next half-hour there were
several more interruptions for advertising.  He found that quite annoying,
but Rena seemed to just ignore them, so he did the same and they ended
up talking about the events portrayed on the show.  It was an odd
conversation since she saw them as metaphoric, and he as actual events,
but it was also an interesting one.  By the time it ended, they were
basically ignoring the program in favor of their conversation.  Both of them
were surprised when the background noise generated by the ignored
television suddenly degenerated into a static hiss.  Rena laughed, shaking
her head.  
     "We talked right through the signoff!  'High Flight,' the 'Star Spangled 
Banner,' and all!  I can't believe it!  It's after midnight!  God, we've got to 
get to sleep or we'll both be total wrecks in the morning.  Come on, let's go
to bed."
     He nodded and stood, waiting for her while she turned off the television,
then preceded him down the hall toward the bedrooms.  She stood in front
of her door for a moment, looking at him, and he lifted his eyebrows
questioningly.  She smiled at him in a way that made him wish for just a
moment that they weren't about to enter *separate* rooms.
     "Thank you, Jean-Luc.  It's been a long time since I've had someone I
could really talk to.  It's a wonderful treat."
     He felt simultaneously embarrassed and pleased.  She had said his
name, for the first time.  She hadn't called him Luke, but Jean-Luc, and
there had been no trace of humor as she said it.  He smiled back.
     "I've enjoyed it too, Rena."
     This time she looked faintly embarrassed.  She opened her door, looked
at him, and waved slightly.  "Well, good night."
    "Good night," he echoed.
     She disappeared into her room.  He opened his door, stepped inside,
and stopped, staring in disbelief, which turned quickly to anger.
      "Q!"  the sound escaped him in a whisper that was more of a shout. 
"What the hell are you doing here?"
      The entity was lounging on the narrow bed, seemingly at ease.  In his
usual human form, a mature, dark-haired man, attractive in an annoying sort
of way.  This time he had dressed for the occasion in ratty-looking cutoffs
and an Iron Maiden t-shirt, with a pair of red and black high-tops on his
feet.  He was perusing a thick magazine with apparent interest.  He
proceeded to fold out a page and turn the publication sideways, looking at
something. After a moment he looked up, eyebrows arched in mocking
curves.
      "Why Jean-Luc!  I'm shocked, really I am!  I had no idea you were
fond of such... sordid reading material."
      Picard took a deep breath and figuratively caught hold of his temper 
with both hands.
      "What *are* you talking about, Q?  And what do you want?"
      "What am I talking about?  As if you need ask!  I'm sure you've
already perused Miss February's nubile charms..."
      He turned the magazine around and displayed a three-page fold out
of an attractive red-head wearing white lace stockings, a pink ribbon in a
bow around her neck, and a lot of makeup.  Nothing else.  Picard studied
it blankly for a moment, noting that the model was astonishingly well-
endowed in the mammary department, then lifted his eyes to Q's face.
      "I cannot believe you came here simply to show me a photograph of
an unclad woman, Q.  What do you want?"
      "Come, come, mon Capitain!  You deny that these haven't
brightened your evenings?"  He indicated a stack of similar magazines on
the bed.
      Picard sighed, realizing there would be no gainsaying Q's whim, and 
shook his head.  "I've never seen them before, what makes you think they're
mine?"
      "I found them under your bed!  Who else would they belong to?"
      Picard chuckled.  "Probably the last occupant of this room, the
brother of the woman to whom the house belongs.  I can assure you that I
don't spend a lot of time grubbing about under the furniture... though
apparently you do."
      Q closed the magazine with a snap, leaving the page showing Miss 
February's legs hanging out.  He looked quite aggravated.
      "You always have an answer, don't you Captain?"
      "No, not always, as you are well aware.  Now, would you mind
telling me what it is you want?"
      Q disappeared from the bed in a flash of blue light, and reappeared
a moment later sitting cross-legged on the dresser, hands steepled together.
      "Why my dear Captain, you mean to say you haven't missed me?  I'm
devastated!  I thought by now you'd be howling for me to come rescue you!
Tell me, how are you enjoying Earth in the Twentieth century?  Is the work
harder than you're used to?  Surely you're ready to admit that you have it 
pretty easy aboard your precious Enterprise, don't you?"
      Picard felt a wave of incredulity.  Was *that* what this was all about?
He shook his head.  "I admit nothing, Q.  It's like comparing apples and 
oranges!  There are no grounds for comparison at all!"
      "Oh?  So... you *enjoy* working as a common laborer?  Spending
your days in the heat and grease, serving your fellow man?"
      Picard felt a smile form despite himself, and told the truth.
      "Actually, it does have a certain appeal."
      Q's scowl deepened, and he disappeared again, reappearing beside
Picard, close enough for his breath to warm his ear as he whispered.
      "Well then, since you seem to like it so well, you may stay!"
      Picard spun to face his tormenter, but Q was gone.  The room was
empty save for himself.  He suddenly realized what he had done, and
felt like a fool.  He'd just given Q an excuse to leave him there.  He
should have protested, and demanded to be taken home!
      "Q?  Damn it, Q, come *back* here!  I need to get back to my ship!"
      Silence answered him.  For a few moments, then a tentative knock
sounded at his door.
      "Luke?  Are you okay?"
      He closed his eyes in disgust.  That was all he'd needed.  Rena must
have overheard him.  Great, now she would no doubt think he'd begun
talking to himself.  What possible plausible reason could he have... his eye
fell on the volume of Shakespeare he'd been perusing earlier, and he
snatched it up, letting it fall open to an arbitrary page.  He managed an
innocently curious expression as he opened the door.
      "Did you need something?"  he queried blandly.
      She looked past him into the room, then back to him, a bit
sheepishly.
      "I...ah... I thought I heard you talking to someone."
      He feigned chagrin.  "Could you hear me?  I'm sorry... I was reading
this passage aloud, for effect, you see."
      She looked at the book, dubiously.  He knew he was going to have
to do better.  Chosing a passage at random, he began to read.
      "By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune, now my dear lady, hath 
mine enemies brought to my shore: and by my prescience I find my zenith doth 
depend upon a most auspicious star; whose influence if I now court not, but 
omit, my fortunes will ever after droop. Here, cease more questions, thou art 
inclined to sleep; 'tis a good dulness, and give it way; I know thou cans't 
not choose,"  he left off and chanced a glance at her.  She was staring at him 
a bit bemusedly.  He guessed that was enough, and finished up.  "The Tempest, 
act one, scene two."
      "Oh,"  she said, looking faintly relieved.  "Do you often read aloud?"
      "Occasionally.  Sometimes you have to read it aloud to hear the
cadences correctly.  It can make a difference in the meaning."
      "That's true.  Well, now that I know you're alright, I am 'inclined to
sleep,'"  she smiled a little, and turned back to re-enter her own room.  He
watched her go, noticing that the lace-trimmed white gown she wore tonight
was a far cry from her shorts and t-shirt of that morning, and that the fabric
from which it was made was very nearly translucent.  Resolutely he closed
his own door, swallowing heavily.  Miss February had nothing on Rena
Taylor, as far as he was concerned.  


                            ###

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Subject: A'la Q, Part 4, by Kellie Matthews-Simmons & Julia Kosatka
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       A soft knock at the door startled Jean-Luc awake.  He
experienced a moment of disorientation, and without thinking he sat up
in bed and turned toward the door.
       "Come."
       As soon as he'd said it, he realized where he was, and that his
response was not the correct one, but it was too late by that time. The
door inched open and Rena peered in, tentatively.  Fortunately he was
at least mostly covered.  Her gaze flickered down him, then almost
immediately lifted back to his face, a slight flush coloring her cheeks.  It
wasn't the first time she'd done that, and he was beginning to wonder if
she was either very inexperienced, or alternately, if she were as attracted
to him as he was to her.  Those were the only things he could think of
that might account for her actions.  It was probably the former, he
reflected pessimistically.  She smiled apologetically.
       "Umm... hi, sorry to wake you, but it's nine-thirty.  I need you
downstairs when you're awake and dressed."
       "Nine-thirty?"  he was startled, and lifted the sheers to look
outside.  The sky was a uniform luminous gray, and everything looked a
bit hazy.
       "I let you sleep as long as I could, after keeping you up all night
last night, but I really could use some help."
       He felt somewhat chagrined that she had been required to come
fetch him.  "Of course, I'm sorry.  I had no idea it was so late.  Usually
the sun wakes me."
       "It's okay, I should have shown you how to set the alarm.  There
was no chance of the sun waking you this morning!  That tropical
depression they mentioned on the weather report yesterday has arrived.
I only hope it doesn't get any worse, half the crops are still out, and no
one around here can afford to lose them!"
       "Tropical depression?"
       "Mmmhmm.  They form out in the Gulf, and sometimes turn into
tropical storms, or even hurricanes.  They can be really nasty business,
but this late in the season they rarely get bad.  Come on, now.  Up and
at 'em!"
       She winked at him and closed the door.  As he dressed, he found
himself thinking about the past few days.  Thursday had passed quickly,
and with no further sign of Q, which worried him a bit.  He was beginning 
to worry about what was happening on the Enterprise in his absence, but his 
work kept him too busy to really dwell on it.  He and Rena had watched Star 
Trek again, and again that had degenerated into a discussion triggered by 
the episode.  The only problem he had... other than the obvious one of his 
presence in the 20th century, was his own growing attraction to his employer, 
and the mixed feeling which that engendered. He had lain awake long into the 
morning trying to talk himself out of wanting her.
   He pushed those thoughts aside once again and joined Rena in the kitchen 
to start preparing for the lunch crowd.  She was sitting on a tall stool at 
one of the counters when he entered the room, and she motioned for him to 
join her, handing him a mug of steaming tea, the scent from which told him 
it was his favorite.  Her plate, and the one he assumed was his, held three 
puffy, golden-brown triangles.  Between the plates was a plastic bear full of 
honey. He looked at her curiously, and she smiled.
       "It's my turn to provide breakfast.  I heated up the fryer early
today and made sopapillas.  Ever had them?"
       He shook his head, sliding onto the empty stool next to hers.  Her
smile turned to a grin.
       "Well, you're in for a treat, then!  They're the next best thing to
sex..."  she laughed and blushed again.  "Well, sort of, anyway.  They're
the Mexican equivalent of doughnuts.  They're hollow inside, so what you
do is tear off a corner, drizzle honey into the middle, and eat."
       She demonstrated, then handed him the honey.  He followed her
example.  The pastry was warm to the touch, and steamed gently when
he tore off a corner as she had instructed.  The honey, thinned by the
heat, ran easily and coated the interior of the pastry.  He took a tentative
bite, and smiled.  The wheaten flavor of the confection was perfectly
complimented by they honey, and the crisp outer layer contrasted nicely
with the almost doughy interior. 
       "Like it?"  Rena queried, a bit anxiously
       Recalling her comments about his crepes he was tempted to tease her 
similarly.  He swallowed, and followed the bite with a sip of tea before 
answering. 
       "You might have exaggerated *slightly* in your description, but it
is delicious."
       She beamed.  "Oh, good!  I hoped you'd like them!  Technically
they're not breakfast, or even dessert as most people assume.  They're
supposed to be served with a meal as a sort of palate cleanser.  Since
Mexican food is often very spicy, the blandness of the sopapillas helps
cool the burn.  But to me, they're just about the world's most perfect
breakfast, I've treated myself to them at least once a month since I
discovered them."
       She took another bite of her own pastry, a blissful expression
suffusing her face.  He watched, fascinated, by her obvious enjoyment. 
It was becoming quite apparent that Rena Taylor was a bit of a
sensualist, underneath her no-nonsense exterior.  He must have watched
her a moment too long, though, for she suddenly looked up at him with
a lifted eyebrow.
       "I have honey on my chin, right?"
       He laughed.  "No, Rena, you don't.  I was just thinking how nice
it is to see you enjoy yourself."
       Yet another wave of color washed across her face and her gaze
dropped to her plate.
       "Oh.  I...ah...."  suddenly she laughed, shaking her head.  "Oh hell,
I don't know why that should embarrass me.  I *was* enjoying it!  And
I intend to keep right on doing so," with that she took another bite, with
exaggerated relish.
       "Good, for I certainly never intended to make you self-conscious
about it."
       "Don't worry,"  she said around a bite.  "You won't."


                                 ###


       '...You won't make me any more self-conscious than I already am.' 
Rena thought to herself wryly.  She'd felt self-conscious since the first
moment she'd laid eyes on him.  It was beginning to wear on her.  She
finished her second pastry, swallowed her last sip of tea. and then took
her plate and cup to the sink to wash and put away.  A few moments
later Jean-Luc joined her there, reaching for her plate and the dishrag
she was using.
       "I'll do these, why don't you start the pintos?  You know the
pressure cooker intimidates me."
       She laughed and relinquished her place, her fingers sliding soapily
along his as she passed the plate to him.  She firmly ignored the spark
of heat that flashed along her nerve endings at the contact, or at least,
she told herself to do so.  Her body didn't cooperate very well.  She
brushed a stray lock of hair out her face with the back of her hand and
grinned at him.
       "Well, how were you to know that you shouldn't just take the
rocker off when the time was up?  I never told you!"
       He smiled wryly.  "Basic physics should have told me that, whether
or not you'd mentioned it.  I wonder if you'll ever get all the beans out
of the vent filter?"
       "I took it out and rinsed it this morning before you were up.  It's
fine now.  But I *will* man the pressure cooker if you like, a lot of
people are afraid of them, you're not alone."
       He lifted an eyebrow at her, drawing himself up ramrod straight.
       "I am *not* afraid of it!  I simply... respect it."
       She studied him for a moment, then grinned sardonically.  "Yeah,
right.  When you finish those you can start the soup-stock, you did fine
with that yesterday."
       "Aye, sir,"  he said, and she got the impression he would have
saluted her had his hands not been full of dishes.  She wondered if he'd
been in the military.  That would explain his bearing, and some of his
mannerisms.  Did France have a military, she wondered momentarily,
then realized what a stupid question that was, betraying her cultural bias. 
The only militaries she ever thought much about were the US and Soviet
ones... or rather, the formerly Soviet ones.  Of *course* France had a
military.  She dug several cups of dried beans out of the big burlap bag
and tossed them in a strainer to rinse them, and watched him pick up the
big stock pot and carry it to the sink to fill.  She realized that although
she'd told him a great deal about herself, he had told her very little about
himself.  Suddenly she had an awful thought, and before she could stop
herself the question spilled out.
       "Jean-Luc... are you married?"
       He looked up at her in obvious surprise, but he seemed to
hesitate for a moment, before he shook his head.  "No, I'm not.  Why do
you ask?"
       "I... uh... was just curious,"  she said, suddenly paying close
attention to picking field debris out of the beans.
       He had hesitated.  There was more to that answer than met the
eye.  Did it mean he was lying, or just the more likely explanation of an
ex-wife.  If he had once been married, he might have kids...  that thought
startled her.  But it was really none of her business.  She finished rinsing
the beans, dumped them into the pot and covered them over with water. 
Setting the rocker on the valve, she got them started.  There was too
much to get done to stand around wondering about her employee's
mysterious past.
       

                                 ###


       "Rena?"
       "Yes, Sueann?"  Rena didn't turn around, intent on watching the
fries, not wanting to remove them until they reached just the proper
shade of golden-tan.
       "I hate to do this to you, but there's a customer at table six who's
just bein' the biggest pain, Ain't nothin' I can do t' please him, and I've
tried and tried!  Would you see if you can settle him down?
       Lifting the heavy chromed fryer basket out of the grease Rena set
it to drain and turned around.  She was a bit shocked by how pale and
drawn Sueann looked.  She had both hands pressed against her lower
back, and she looked positively enormous!  Rena frowned, forgetting
about the unhappy customer for the moment.
       "Susie, sweetie, are you *sure* you're only seven months along?"
       Sueann's gaze fell and her pale cheeks turned a dull red as she
shook her head.
       "No..."  she almost whispered.  "I lied about how far along I was
so Billy Ray'd think it was his, cause I didn't start seein' him 'til late
February."
       Torn between the urge to comfort the younger woman, and the
urge to shake her till her teeth rattled, Rena sighed.
       "Oh, Sueann... you shouldn't have lied to *me*!  
       "I know, Rena, but I had to!"
       "No, you didn't *have* to,"  Rena admonished sternly.  "You know
I wouldn't have told him a thing!  So, how far along are you, really?"
       Shamefaced, Sueann stared at the floor as she answered.  "Doc
Lacey figgers I'm due in three weeks."
       Rena put her hand to her forehead, distractedly pushing aside her
slightly damp curls. 
       "Three weeks!"  She exclaimed.  "Three weeks?  Sueann, I'd tan
your hide if you weren't so far gone!  You get upstairs right now, and lie
down!  After the rush is over I'll run you home.  You shouldn't be
working in your condition!"
       Sueann started to cry, fat tears sliding down her cheeks, leaving
mascara trails behind them.
       "But Rennie!  I gotta work!  How else am I gonna be able to
afford to pay my rent?"
       "I'll... figure something out.  But you're not lifting another tray
until after that baby is born, d'you hear me?"
       Sueann nodded dejectedly and wiped her eyes on her apron
before essaying the stairs to the living quarters.  Rena sighed, and turned
to find Jean-Luc watching her.
       "Is something wrong?"
       "Nothing you can fix,"  she said, a bit bluntly.  "I just sent Sueann
upstairs to rest, and she'll be going home as soon as I find the time to
take her.  She just finally saw fit to inform me that her baby's due in
three weeks, not two months!"
       He didn't seem surprised, in fact, he nodded.
       "I thought she seemed pretty far along to be on her feet so much."
       "Well, I wish you'd have mentioned that fact to me!"  she snapped,
a bit sourly, then felt badly for it.  He couldn't have know she didn't
know.  She bit the inside of her lip against the feeling of hopelessness
that threatened to spill over into tears, and took a deep breath.
       "I'm sorry, you didn't deserve that.  I'm going to go out and see
what's the problem at table six, and then I'll have to take over waiting
tables.  Do you think you can manage back here on your own?"
       He glanced around the kitchen once, and nodded.  "I think so, if
you'll be on-call for anything unusual."
       She smiled, relieved.  "Deal!  And thank you!"
       He nodded, but she was already gone.  He turned back to the grill
and flipped a burger with an ease that had fast become second nature to
him.  He slapped a piece of the orange plastic-like compound that went
by the name of "American cheese" on top of the meat, and put a pan
lid over it so that the steam could melt the cheese.  Many of the foods
he'd tried here were quite good, but there were a few that were so
unutterably awful that it was embarrassing to be the person responsible.
He sighed and reached for a bun from the toaster.

                                 ###


       Rena studied table six from the doorway for a moment, trying to
evaluate the problem.  There was only one patron there, a stranger, no
doubt some traveler who'd stopped on his way somewhere.  He was
seated, so she couldn't judge his height, but he seemed broad shouldered. 
He wore a conservative dark suit, which looked quite out of place
amongst the usual jeans-and-t-shirt crowd.  His hair was dark and curly,
brushed back from a rather high forehead.  His features seemed
overlarge, almost leonine, and if she discounted a hint of petulance
around the mouth, she might have even said he was handsome.  Pasting
on a cheerful smile she approached the table.
       "Good afternoon sir, Sueann tells me you have a complaint?"
       He looked at her, and instantly she felt the little hairs on the back
of her neck lift.  He was dangerous.  She wasn't sure in what way, she
just knew he was.  His eyes were dark, and rather compelling.  He
studied her for a moment, frowning slightly, and leaned back in his chair,
fairly reeking of arrogance.  
       "I didn't ask to see you, I said I wanted to see the cook."
       "I'm afraid the cook is busy at the moment, I'm Rena Taylor, I
own the Double R, what can I do for you?"
       "I said I wanted to see the cook!"
       "And I said you can't.  What can I do for you?"
       She discovered that those dark eyes could become amazingly icy. 
       "You can't do anything for me!  I just want to talk to the person
who cooked this slop!"
       She took a deep breath and studied his plate.  His burger and
fries looked fine, as a matter of fact, better than usual.  Not a single bite
was missing from the sandwich.  How the hell could he tell there was
something wrong if he hadn't even tasted it?  She started to get annoyed,
but forced herself to be civil.
       "Could you tell me what's wrong?  Perhaps I can correct it for
you.  Would you like to order something else?"
       "I don't want anything else, I want to talk to *him!*"
       He shot a glance past her, through the service window into the
kitchen, his eyes narrowing.  She followed his gaze and found him staring
at Jean-Luc's back with recognition in his gaze.  Suddenly she felt
apprehensive.  Could this possibly be the person Luke had said would
come for him?  Did that mean he would be leaving?  Even as she
thought it, she dismissed the thought.  Jean-Luc would *not* be travelling
with this asshole.  
       "*Is* there something wrong with your food, sir?"  she insisted,
using the hard tone she reserved for drunks.  "If so, please be good
enough to tell me what it is, if not, stop making such a ruckus and
behave yourself!"
       The man's jaw dropped, and he leaned toward her intimidatingly.
       "Do you know who I am?"  he queried in a low, threatening tone.
       "No, I don't, and I don't much care to, either!"  She reached down
and pinched his earlobe between her fingernails, a technique she'd found
surprisingly effective.  He yelped, eyes widening with astonishment and
pain.  She tugged, hard, and he rose with the tug to keep her from
yanking his ear off.  She walked him toward the door, everyone gaping
openmouthed at the sight.  It felt kind of good.  She reached the door
and yanked it open with her free hand, letting in a blast of hot air.
       "You, sir, are not welcome in this establishment!  Goodbye, and
don't bother to come back or I'll call the sheriff..."  she smiled for
emphasis before adding a coda.  "...and he's my godfather."
       She let go of his ear and propelled him through the door with a
slight push to the center back.  He stumbled out, and turned swiftly to
stare at her, his face a mask of outrage.  
       "Don't let the door hit y' in the ass on the way out,"  she said
sweetly, and waved, letting the door swing closed between them.  He
stared at her a moment longer, his expression gradually becoming
thoughtful, then to her utter astonishment he smiled.  A bright blue light
flashed from somewhere, probably a reflection off the windshield of a
passing truck, and she blinked.  When her vision cleared, he wasn't there
any more.  She looked right, and left, but he was nowhere to be seen. 
Odd.  She turned and found herself almost nose to nose with Jean-Luc. 
His face was white as a sheet, his fists were clenched, and he was staring
out into the street with the most peculiar look on his face... half
exasperation, half... fear? 
       "Luke?"  she ventured, putting a hand on his shoulder.
       His attention snapped back to her and he took a deep breath,
releasing it in a sigh that sounded relieved.
       "Rena, do me a favor.  If he *ever* shows up again, don't do
anything.  Don't talk to him, and especially don't antagonize him.  Just
come get me, alright?"
       She studied his face, and realized he was serious.  She frowned. 
       "Do you *know* that guy?  Is he the friend you were expecting?"
       Jean-Luc made a derisive sound that in anyone else would
probably have been called a snort, and shook his head.
       "Q..."  he stopped himself, shaking his head, and started again. 
"He's definitely not a friend, Rena; but yes, he is one of the people
I thought might come looking for me."
       She stared at him, scowling now, and nodded toward the kitchen. 
       "I think we need to talk."
       For a moment it looked like he was going to try to dissuade her,
then he nodded and preceded her into the kitchen.  As the doors swung
shut behind them she turned on him, her voice a low hiss.
       "You're not some kind of drug dealer, are you?  Because if you
are..."  The incredulous look on his face stopped her mid-sentence.  That
was obviously not what was going on.  "Okay, so you're not a drug dealer,
but you're obviously afraid of that guy!  What is he?  Organized crime? 
FBI?  CIA?"
       "No, Rena, nothing like that.  He's just an acquaintance.  He's
unpredictable, and powerful, occasionally even dangerous, but he's not
from any organization,"  he shook his head, smiling ruefully.  "In fact, his
primary purpose in life appears to be simply to annoy me.  I won't try to
tell you I wasn't afraid just then, but it was for you, not me.  He's been
known to hurt people."
       "Who is he?  How did you get involved with him?"
       "I... can't tell you that.  Even if I could, you probably wouldn't
believe me.  Can we just leave it that if he ever shows up again you'll
come get me immediately?  You won't antagonize him?"
       She looked at him for a long moment, then sighed and nodded. 
       "God help me, I'm probably going to regret this, but alright.  You
win.  I trust you, Jean-Luc, and if he comes back I'll get you, right away."
       He looked very relieved.  "Thank you, Rena, you won't regret that,
I know you won't."
       She looked skeptical, but finally sighed and turned toward the
door to return to the dining room.  Glancing at the calendar on the wall
next to it she suddenly began to chuckle.
       "I should have expected today to be weird!  It's Friday the
Thirteenth!"  she made a claw-like shape with her hand and grinned
evilly.  "I guess I should be grateful it wasn't Freddy that showed up!"
       With that she pushed through the swinging doors, leaving him
staring after her in complete bewilderment.
       

                           ###


       As the doors swung closed behind her, there was a flash of light,
and Picard found himself facing Q, who was leaning against the wall, legs
crossed casually, a speculative expression on his face.  Picard tensed.
       "What is it, Q?  What do you want?"
       "What do I want?  What do *I* want?"  He tapped his lips with
a finger and gazed at the ceiling for a moment, then looked back at
Picard with an appraising glance.
       "What I want, mon capitain, is to know how it is that such a
stodgy, self-righteous, *boring* man like you manages to attract such
*interesting* women!"
       Picard couldn't help it.  He grinned.  Even knowing that it would
probably annoy the hell out of Q, and derogatory statements not with-
standing.
       "I suppose that's something you'll never know, isn't it?"
       Q's gaze narrowed, and he shook his finger at Picard.
       "Now, now, now, one would think you don't *want* to go home,
Jean-Luc!"
       Before he could answer, the doors opened again to admit Rena
with the bussing tub, and when they swung closed again Q was gone. 
Picard felt relieved, and also frustrated.  Another chance to go home,
gone.  Why didn't that upset him more than it did?



                           ###


       Weekends were harder by far than the weekdays. they involved getting up 
at five in the morning in order to be able to open the diner at seven for break-
fast, but they didn't close until the usual time, nine in the evening.   It 
made for very long days.  The only saving grace had been that business had been
relatively slow, so they were able to manage with just the two of them.  By 
Sunday night, however, Rena was drooping with exhaustion, and Jean-Luc felt 
little better.  As he loaded dishes into the dishwasher he heard the 
unmistakable sound of shattering crockery from the dining area, followed 
swiftly by a stream of very loud, and very vulgar curses.  He stifled a grin, 
knowing that would only make things worse, and went to the door, pushing 
it open to find Rena staring down at a pile of glass and china shards mingled
with cutlery.  The big plastic tub she in which she carried dirty dishes lay 
overturned beside the mess.  She looked up at him, pushing her hair out of
her face in a familiar gesture, sighed, and shook her head.
       "Looks like another trip to the restaurant supply house next time I go
to Houston,"  she nudged a large piece of plate toward the others with her
toe, and suddenly grinned wickedly.  "I never did care much for these dishes; 
you feel like breaking a few on purpose?"
       She picked up a relatively refuse-free plate from the counter, held it 
out, and let it drop.  It exploded on the black and gray tile with a 
satisfying crash.  She reached for a glass, but he stopped her, removing
it gently from her hand, recognizing the mood that underlay her grim 
humor.  He set the glass aside and put his hands on her shoulders.
       "Don't Rena, you're tired, and you'll regret doing it tomorrow.  I'll 
finish down here, you go on upstairs and get some rest."
       She sagged slightly against his hands, as if she were falling asleep
where she stood, then she shook herself and straightened, pulling away from him.
       "You're right, of course.  I would have regretted it in the morning..."
she looked at the mess again and smiled a little.  "But it would have been 
fun tonight!  Thanks, I owe you one."
       He shook his head.  "You don't owe me anything.  Go on now, upstairs."
       She nodded and headed for the door to the living area, feet dragging
slightly as she walked.  The last thing he saw was her yawn as she went around
the corner.  Seconds later his own jaw tensed as he smothered a yawn triggered
by hers.  He studied the mess for a moment, then sighed and went to get the
broom and dustpan.
       It was nearly forty minutes later when he had finally finished cleaning
up the broken dishes, and the kitchen as well.  He was surprised to find that
he felt no sense of satisfaction in having completed his tasks, though.  He 
didn't know how much more of this lifestyle he could take.  It was the same... 
always the same.  Day in, day out, monotony.  How had Rena stood it for three
years?  He couldn't understand how a vital, intelligent woman like her could
remain trapped in this existence.  He stretched, and flinched as the stretch
aggravated the muscles he'd strained when he threw Billy Ray.  They were still
sore, nearly a week later!  He missed the instant relief of the protoplaser.  It
was time to admit it.  Q was right, at least partly.  He *did* have have it
relatively easy on the Enterprise, if you discounted things like being captured
by the Borg, and tortured by Cardassians.  He smiled wryly at that thought,
and wondered briefly what Deanna would say to that thought.
       Taking off his apron he threw it and the kitchen towels and cloths 
into the washing machine in the utility room, measured in the amount of 
soap that Rena had indicated should be used, and started it.  After a moment's 
hesitation, his t-shirt went into the load as well.  It stank of sweat, smoke 
and grease.  He watched as the machine filled with water and began to agitate
the laundry, then closed the lid, turned out the lights and headed upstairs 
for some much-needed rest.
       Halfway up the stairs he realized he could hear the television, and 
frowned.  Had Rena waited up for him?  After he had specifically sent her 
to get some sleep?  He opened the door to the sitting room, prepared to
chide her about not taking care of herself, and stopped, a smile spreading
over his face.  Whatever her original intention had been, she had ended up
resting despite herself.  She was half-sitting, half-lying on the couch,
one shirttail out, shoes and socks lying discarded halfway between the
couch and the television; and she was sound asleep.  For a moment he 
considered leaving her there, but the realization of how he would feel if
*he* slept in that position all night disposed of that idea.  He turned
off the television, and went to her, putting his hand on her shoulder.
       "Rena... Rena, wake up."
       She started, and opened her eyes, blinking sleepily as she focused.
       "Luke?"  she glanced at the television, puzzled, then rubbed her eyes.
"I'm sorry, I must have fallen asleep.  What time is it?"
       "Ten-forty."
       "Oh, god.  I had no idea it would take so long for you to finish, I'm
sorry..."  she began, looking distressed.  
       He cut her off, shaking his head."Stop apologizing, it's not 
necessary.  Now, why don't you  get up and go to bed?  You'll regret it if
you sleep out here."
       "Mmm... probably.  Help me up?"  she shifted on the couch, putting 
her legs over the side, and held out her hands.  He took them, and pulled
her to her feet, just a bit too hard.  They overbalanced and nearly fell
over, only just saving themselves.  Rena laughed, and poked him in the
chest with one finger.
       "I said help me *up*, Luke, not *down!*"  Suddenly her hair-trigger 
blush washed into her face and she snatched her hand away.  "Um... sorry.  
I didn't mean... what happened to your shirt?"
       He chuckled, shaking his head.  "It's in the wash, and I'm not 
offended so please, don't start apologizing again!"
       "Very well, I won't."  she stepped back and studied him, her head 
tilted to one side, eyes narrowed; then she smiled.  "Don't forget, 
tomorrow, you're *mine*"
       He went very still, looking a cautiously confused.  "I'm... yours?"
       She nodded, rubbing her hands together in a classic gesture of greedy
anticipation.  "You haven't forgotten have you?  You promised to model."
       He wasn't sure if he felt relief or disappointment.  He was sure
he felt embarrassed, and hoped it didn't show as readily as hers did.
       "Oh... that."
       "Yes, that!  But I won't be a slave driver, we won't start until
late... say nine?"
       "Considering how I feel right now, I wouldn't call that late!"
       "Pansy!"  she teased.  "I won't make you cook breakfast, even if it 
*is* your turn!"
       "My *turn?*  I wasn't aware we were taking turns!  I thought it was
your duty as my employer to supply room and board."
       "Well, you have a room, don't you?  And I'd be willing to bet you're
bored..."
       He groaned, shaking his head.  "You get a half-hours' nap and start
making puns?  That's not fair.  How can I fight that, in my condition?"
       "You can't.  I always get silly when I'm tired.  But you need your
beauty sleep if you're going to pose for me, so you'd better go on to bed."
       He made a derisive snort at her use of the term 'beauty sleep,' but
followed her as she moved toward the bedrooms.  He stopped at his door, and
looked toward her to find her poised with her hand on the doorknob to her
own room, looking at him.  A spark of awareness passed between them, and they
stood staring at each other for a long moment, then Rena ducked her head and
quickly entered her room, closing the door firmly.  He followed suit a minute
later.

       
       
                                  ###

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Date: Mon, 30 Aug 1993 14:10:18 -0500 (CDT)
Subject: A'la Q, Part 5, by Kellie Matthews-Simmons & Julia Kosatka
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       "I see a lot of drifters come through this town.  You just don't seem
the type." 
       Rena picked up the board holding her barely begun sculpture and 
turned to place it in the cabinet.  She fussed with the cloth covering the
clay and rearranged some of her tools.  Anything to give her a few more
moments to try and collect herself.  
       /C'mon, Rena!  Get a grip!  You're acting like a dumb kid in your
first life-drawing class!  He's just your *model*!/  
       An inaudible sigh escaped her lips as she realized that he was much
more to her than 'just' a model.  Just as during the past few days he'd
become much more than *just* her employee.  She had felt like a fool
during the entire session.  What must he think of her?  She usually didn't
care much about what other people thought, but this man was *different*. 
For days, every time she dropped something or avoided his eyes she could
feel herself blushing.  Then there was the one time she didn't avoid those
eyes.  Rena clenched her fists and took a deep breath trying to dispel the
heat she felt rising at the memory of Luke standing in the doorway with the
setting sun on his features.  At the time she thought she only wanted him
for a model.  She hadn't been willing to admit to herself that she just plain
*wanted* him.
       "I'll take that as a compliment, Rena."  
       The sound of his voice jolted her back to reality.  She turned back
toward him, smiling and swallowed the response she'd intended.  Instead
she just nodded her acknowledgement.  At the sight of him, her mouth went
dry, too dry to speak.  While she was putting away her supplies, he'd
started dressing.  He stood there now in his jeans with his shirt on but still
unbuttoned, a strange, almost sad smile on his face.  Her eyes were drawn
unerringly to the slight gap where he'd left the top two buttons of his jeans
undone so he could tuck in his shirt.  She felt her color rise again, for the
hundred-first time, and dragged her gaze away.  Taking a sip from the glass
of tepid water on her workbench, she struggled to find a neutral subject,
and noticed Jean-Luc rubbing his right shoulder.
       "Shoulder still hurting?"
       He nodded and winced a little.  /Never,/ he thought to himself,
/Never again will I complain when Beverly orders me to sickbay./
       "Here, let me see if I can help work out some of the stiffness." 
       Picard watched Rena reopen the cabinet and pull out a small box
marked with a large red plus symbol.  /Ah, a red 'cross.'/  The
identification pleased him.  He'd been amazed by how much trivial
information he'd stored in his memory and how it had slowly started
working it's way to the surface.  It had made his stay here much easier to
deal with.  Rena was rummaging around in the box, muttering to herself. 
      "I think I saw some ointment in here the other...Here it is!"  With
a triumphant smile, she pulled out a small green and white tube that
proved to contain a white cream that smelled strongly of wintergreen.
       "Have a seat and let me work this into your shoulder." 
       She indicated the stool he'd been sitting on for the modeling session. 
He took his shirt off again and as he sat down with his back to her, he
could feel the color rising to his face.  Over the past few days, his
attraction to Rena had been growing steadily. He'd tried to keep it hidden
and based on her reactions to him, he seemed to have succeeded.  She was
only interested in her restaurant and her art.  The last thing he wanted to
do was get involved in a relationship that hadn't a chance. 
       /Still,/ he thought, /she has the most incredible hands. Strong,
confident, supple./ Having to just *watch* as she molded the clay was one
of the most difficult things he'd ever done.  If it weren't for the pain in his
shoulder and the cold blast of the air cooling unit on his back, he doubted
that he could have survived the session with his dignity intact.  As it was,
he had to steel himself to stillness in anticipation of her touch.  
       The room was still in the late afternoon heat, the only sounds came
from the air cooling unit, hissing quietly in the corner, the pulsating sound
of cicadas in the tree outside and the small movements Rena made as she
gathered up her supplies and rinsed the rest of the clay off her hands.
       "So, why do you do it?"  
       Rena's melodious voice rose from the silence behind him.  
       "Why do I do it?" he asked, trying to remember what they had been
talking about previously.  
       "Yes," she moved up behind him. "Why do you drift? Didn't you ever 
want to settle down?  Put some roots down someplace?  *Be* something?  
Hold still now, this may be cold to the touch.  Let me know if I'm rubbing 
too hard."  
       He jumped slightly as she placed her left hand gently on his left
shoulder to steady herself. 
       "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."  
       He was so wrapped up in trying to subdue his response to her that
he didn't notice the odd note that crept into her voice.  She began to gently
rub the ointment into his sore shoulder with firm even strokes.  The same
kind of strokes she'd used with the clay.  The same strokes he'd
half-imagined feeling on his own skin as if it were *him* she was sculpting
and not the clay.  A low moan escaped as her hand drove the ointment into
his skin, the initial chemical coolness becoming a pleasant burning that
soothed his sore muscles.  That pleasant burning was being rivaled by a
different kind of burning within him.  
       Rena's grip on his left shoulder changed to a gentle caress that crept
toward his neck.  She leaned closer to him until he could feel her breath on
his skin.  Her body heat made the room suddenly cold and he shivered in
response.  
       "Give it a minute. It'll warm up before you know it."  
       Rena's voice had acquired a husky quality that Jean-Luc hadn't
noticed before.  It sent a shiver up his spine as he realized what it implied. 
He glanced back over his shoulder and saw that her face was as flushed as
his felt.  Her nostrils were flared and her eyes half-closed as she put all her
concentration into her hands and what they held.  
       "Rena..."  
       She gasped as his low voice broke her concentration.  He turned and
took her left hand in his and looked up, his hazel eyes meeting her warm
green ones.  
       "Rena, I...," Jean-Luc paused desperately searching for the right
words and just as desperately wishing he didn't have to say them, "...I can't
let this happen."  He worked to keep his eyes on hers and her hand clasped
in his.  The curves of her body as she stood over him enticed him.  Her
warm scent mingled with the sharp aroma of wintergreen made him almost
light headed.
       Rena wiped her hand on her jeans to take of the remainder of the
ointment.  She traced the line of his jaw with one finger and was rewarded
with his sharp intake of breath.  
       "Why not?" she asked in a low voice, her finger continuing it's
feather-light exploration of his face.  "It's rather obvious that we both want
it."  She smiled a quiet sultry smile and continued, "Don't be so
old-fashioned.  I know there's a *slight* difference in our ages.  I certainly
don't mind."  
       Her finger traced the outline of his ear and started relentlessly down
his neck.  Still holding her left hand captive, he reached up and took her
wayward right hand in his and held them both. 
       "Please, stop that," he said gently, "and sit down.  Looking up at you
like this is too," he swallowed and closed his eyes, "*distracting*, and we
need to talk."  
       She retrieved one of her hands and reached beside her for another
stool.  Once seated, he recaptured her hand and took a deep breath.  Rena
wondered if he realized that he was not only holding her hands but that he
was gently caressing them with his thumbs.  She thought not, but didn't say
anything for fear he would stop.  She also knew that his caresses were the
*only* thing keeping her from running her hands over his shoulders and
chest.  Once again, she jerked her eyes from his partially unbuttoned jeans
to his face and tried to control her breathing.        
       "Rena," Jean-Luc began again, "you *know* nothing can come of
this.  And contrary to what you may think," he smiled at the absurdity of
the idea, "our *ages* have *nothing* to do with this.  You said it yourself,
I'm a  drifter.  One day you'll wake up and I'll be gone.  I *don't* want
to hurt you." He looked away, unable to meet her gaze.
       She freed one of her hands and used it to turn his face back to
hers.  "Jean-Luc, I'm glad to know that you're not hung up on the age
thing.  But as for the other," she smiled mischievously, "I'm not asking you
to *marry* me," she freed her other hand and scooted her stool a little
closer to him then placed both hands on his shoulders. "I just want your
body."  
       The look on his face brought a low laugh from the depths of her
throat.  "Gotcha!", she said, delighted that she'd been able to break his
serious mood.  Finding out that he felt as she did had made her a little fey. 
       He smiled at her and shook his head, chuckling.  But it didn't last,
he sobered and continued, "While  I'm very flattered, it doesn't change
anything. It wouldn't be fair to you."  
       Rena pulled her hands back and crossed her arms, her mood
suddenly stern.  
       "What do you mean 'it wouldn't be fair to me'?  Is it any more fair
to you?  Do you think I'm not capable of deciding for myself what's fair
or not?"  
       Jean-Luc realized that he may have stumbled onto the heart of her 
self-esteem problems and started to speak, but Rena plowed on, getting
more and more angry.  
       "Contrary to what you may have heard from some of the bozos in
this one-horse town, I'm *not* a 'sweet li'l thang'. I'm a grown woman!
I'm fully capable of taking care of myself!  I'm *not* Sueann!  I don't need
a man around to define *who* I am!"
       "Rena..."
       "If I say I'm attracted to a man, then I'm attracted to him, damn it!
That doesn't mean I'm asking him to suddenly take over my life!  It means
I find him physically and emotionally attractive!"
       "Rena, I...," she ignored him and continued, her voice rising almost
to a shout as she stood, too angry to stay still.
       "It *may* mean that I want to share something very personal and
very important with him..."
       Taking the only step he could think of to break into her monologue
so he could apologize, Jean-Luc stood and taking her shoulders in his
hands, kissed her.  Rena put her hands against his chest as if to push him
away, but then let them slip down his sides and around to his back as they
melted toward each other.  She felt his arms around her, strong and
supporting but not restraining.  After what seemed an eternity in those
arms she pulled back, trying to catch her breath.  He, too, seemed a bit
dazed.  
       "What was that for?" there was still some residual anger in her
voice, but the edge was gone.
       Jean-Luc grinned at her, "I kept trying to tell you that I was sorry,
but you wouldn't listen.  I didn't mean to imply that you are incapable of
making your own decisions.  Far from it, your competence and
independence are two of the qualities that I find *very* attractive about
you.  I feel sorry for Sueann, and I wish her well, but I don't think I could
*ever* be attracted to her."  
       A stray lock of hair had fallen into Rena's face.  Mimicking a
gesture he'd seen her use, Jean-Luc tucked it behind her ear, a tender
gesture that served to emphasize his words. 
       "Still angry?"
       "Yes!" Rena's eyes flashed again, then the fire cooled almost as
fast. "No! Damn! I don't know."  
       She turned away, running her hands through her hair and stepped
to her work table where she leaned on her palms and took a deep breath
trying to sort out her confused feelings.  Jean-Luc stepped toward her,
uncertain of his next move.  It wasn't a feeling he enjoyed, but it seemed
to be one thing that all his romantic relationships had in common. He
raised a hand, wanting to touch her, to hold her, but held back.  He didn't
want to rush things.  Hearing him move closer she whirled around.
       "Damn you!  Why do you have to be so...so...*perfect*?! Damn!" 
Rena half turned away, trying to get herself under control.  
       Jean-Luc stood there feeling the blood rush to his face.  Many
women had called him many different things over the years, but perfect
was not one of the more common adjectives used.  
       "Rena, I can assure you, I'm *far* from perfect."  The situation was
so absurd, if it weren't for fear of hurting Rena's feelings further, he'd
laugh.  As it was, he couldn't keep a small smile from his lips and from
his eyes.  She caught his expression and returned his smile ruefully.
       "I feel like I'm trapped in a Doris Day movie!"  she smiled and
rolled her eyes a little at his blank expression before continuing, "I'm being
a little silly about this, aren't I?"
       "No, Rena, I don't think you're being at all silly.  I'm just sorry
if I assumed something that I shouldn't.  The last thing I wanted was to 
upset you.  I'm entirely too fond of you for that."  
       He took another step toward her and took her hands, raising one
to his lips.  The light touch of his lips on her palm sent an almost electric
charge through her body.  A charge that left a pleasant ache below her
abdomen.  She closed her eyes and inhaled sharply, suddenly and very
physically aware of his closeness once more. When she opened her eyes
again it was to see his eyes gazing into hers, an intense expression on his
face.  She reached up with one hand and gently caressed his cheek, letting
one finger trace a line down his neck to his chest.  Her other hand joined
the first as she gently stroked his bare chest.  
       Jean-Luc reached out to lay his hands on her shoulders for balance
as his head fell back slightly and his eyes closed with the pleasure of her
touch.  As her hands passed lightly over his nipples, she was rewarded by
a shiver that shook his entire body and an intensification of the heat in her
own body.  Her hands continued their tactile exploration of his body as if
by their own volition.  She followed the exquisite contours of his body as
she would virgin clay to seek out the statue within.  Down his lean,
muscular sides to that slender waist. /God, Luke, you are undoubtedly the
most beautiful man I've ever encountered./ As aroused as she was, Rena
knew she'd not be able to put two coherent words together, so she didn't
try.  Not that he'd believe her anyway.  
       A feral grin crossed her face as she encountered the two unfastened
buttons of his jeans.  With her hand laid against his flat stomach, one
thumb dipped down into the opening and she felt his hands tighten on her
shoulders as his back arched slightly and heard his sharp intake of breath. 
As his head came forward and his eyes opened he took another step
toward her and took her in his arms.
       "Rena," he breathed her name into her hair as his hands began
their own exploration.  
       Being held against his bare chest, she could feel his heart pounding
and feel his breath on her neck as he nuzzled her ear. She gasped as his
hands stroked her back and ran down to her hips and buttocks.  His touch,
diffused as it was through the material, was maddening.  He brought one
hand up to touch her throat and let it trail down to the first button on her
blouse.  He looked into her eyes, as if for permission which she granted
silently by shifting position slightly to improve his access.  Slowly and
carefully he unbuttoned the top of her blouse, one button at a time, until
he reached the waist of her jeans.  He slipped one hand into her blouse
to stroke her back as he leaned down and kissed the hollow just above her
collarbone.  Rena clutched at his arms as she shuddered in response to his
touch, his scent and the smell of wintergreen mingling in her nostrils.  She
gasped and shuddered, trying to gain control of her voice as she pushed
at him.  
       "Wa...wait."  She swallowed convulsively, "Wait, Luke."
       He stopped, a contrite look on his face.  "Rena, I..." it was
his turn to try and speak.  "I'm sorry.  I thought..."  
     She stopped him as he tried to pull his hands away. "No, no, it's not 
that."  Rena took a deep breath as she closed her eyes for a moment, then 
reopened them and said, "Your touch is...magic," she looked into his eyes. 
"It's not *you*, it's the *location*!"  she smiled as her meaning sunk in.  
"Let's go someplace where we won't wind up with splinters in places where 
splinters shouldn't be,"  she indicated the rough wooden floor with a glance. 
       "And... much as it pains me to say this, Luke, you'd best put your shirt on
and take care of these before we go out in public," she added with a
wolfish grin.  
       She left one hand resting on his chest and indicated the unfastened
buttons on his jeans by running her fingers firmly up from just below the
lowest button to the waistband.  He made a soft sound of pleasure at her
touch and then a slow sensual grin spread across his face in response to
her comment as his breathing returned to a more normal pace.  
       "And you, my dear Rena, should take care of *this* before we go
out in public."  
     Smiling, he ran his hands lightly over her breasts, teasing her nipples 
through her bra.  Now it was her turn to close her eyes and moan with 
pleasure.  She fought for control over her voice. 
       "Keep that up, Luke and you're goin' to wind up with splinters." 
He smiled at her and took her into his arms for one last lingering kiss
before leaving the studio.


                           ###

       Jean-Luc stood under the air conditioning vent in Rena's living
room, letting the cold air flow over him.  The short walk from the studio
had been enough to drench him in sweat. It was difficult to reconcile the
sauna-like heat with the fact of a tropical storm just a hundred miles or
so down the coast.  Rena's proximity hadn't made it any cooler. He smiled 
remembering how good she felt in his arms and felt himself responding to the 
memory.  The shiver that shook him had little to do with the temperature.  
Still standing under the vent, he unbuttoned his shirt to cool off faster 
and waited for Rena come upstairs.

       Rena stood in front of the open refrigerator a little longer than 
necessary.  After living in New Mexico for several years, she had never
been able to get reacclimated to the combination of heat and humidity on
the Gulf Coast. Reaching in once more, she pulled out a bowl and set it in
her basket with everything else.  She closed the door and reviewed her
selections.  As she glanced around the kitchen, her eyes fell on one more
item.  She smiled and added it to her booty.  She unconsciously cast a
practiced eye around the kitchen to make sure everything was still in place
for morning before she turned and headed up the stairs.  
       Half way up she stopped to shift her heavy  basket and looked up at
her door.  *He* was up there already, waiting for her. The mere thought
made her light-headed and sent a rush to her loins that made climbing the
rest of the stairs a pleasant agony.  She knew that part of what was going
on was her own thirst for companionship.  In some ways she was beginning to
feel like those women who stay home with their infant children and forget
how to talk to an adult.  Not that the people in Ridge were stupid or dull,
they were good people.  *She* was the different one.  
       She'd always been different.  Odd, that her mother's death had kept
her here when she was the one who'd insisted that she get out.  She'd told
her.  "Rennie, this is a good town with good folks, but you don't belong
here.  You got to get out and be the person you were born to be and that
ain't some junior high school art teacher or some rice farmer's wife.  You
got to go where there's people who'll understand why you are what you
are."  
       As she put her hand on the doorknob she found herself smiling in
anticipation.  Luke understood her.  He understood her better than anyone
she'd ever known, except, maybe, her mother.  That was half his attraction. 
Being drop-dead gorgeous didn't hurt either.  As she opened the door, her
low chuckle caught in her throat.  Luke was standing in the center of the
room, head back, shirt open letting the cold rush of air from the air
conditioning vent wash over him.  She'd asked him to turn the thermostat
down from 80 to 75 when she sent him upstairs ahead of her and he was
making good use of it.  
       /How can I *possibly* do justice to that body?/ The dual meaning
of her thought made her laugh out loud, her earlier mood returning in full
force.  He noticed her then, and smiled as he approached to take the basket
from her.  She slipped her shoes off and then leaned back against the door
as she closed it and gestured to the floor.   
       "Just put it down.  No need to waste valuable energy clearing off
one of the tables." 
       He set it down out of the way and turned back to her, standing
almost within her reach, 
       "That's one of the most intriguing smiles I've ever seen.  Mind
telling me what you find so humorous?"  
       Rena hesitated slightly, unsure how he'd take her reply.  He never
took compliments very well, but she couldn't resist the temptation to play
a little. She reached out and just caught the edge of his open shirt and
pulled him closer so she could run her hands softly over the contours of his
chest. 
       "When I opened the door and saw you standing there, I couldn't
help wondering if I could *possibly* do justice to your body."  Rena's
voice took on a seductive husky quality as she spoke.  Luke put his left
hand against the door near Rena's head and leaned on it. The other hand
reached up to tuck a wayward lock of hair behind her ear.
       "Justice?  To me?" his voice, though low and rich with desire, held
a hint of surprise.  "Were you thinking about your sculpture?" he leaned
down and nuzzled her ear and then ran the tip of his tongue lightly down
her neck until he reached the top of her shirt which he moved aside so he
could continue down to her collarbone where he kissed her and asked, "Or
this?"
       Glassy-eyed, Rena returned his intense regard as he continued, 
       "If you're concerned about your art, you needn't be. Like Rodin,
you have the gift of seeing below the surface of your subject and bringing
out it's inner beauty, even if you are the only one who can see it."  
       He couldn't help but think of the unfinished sculpture he'd seen in
her studio earlier.  It was a disturbing tableau of an ancient she-wolf
defending one dead cub and another that was mortally wounded.  The look
of hopeless desperation in the wolf's eyes was equally compelling and
repulsive and yet, somehow, beautiful. No, Rena had no reason to worry
about her talents as an artist.  He brought both hands to her shoulders and
began to caress her, running one hand down to her breasts where he idly
traced the outline of one nipple standing erect even through her clothes. 
       "But, my dear, if you are concerned about *this*, there's only one 
way *I* can think of to reassure you."  
       Rena's hands found the back of his neck and pulled his mouth down
to hers.  As their kiss deepened, she felt Luke's arms go around her,
holding her close to him. She ran her hands down his neck, under his shirt
and to his shoulders.  Using the motion of her hands, she began to slip his
shirt off. He released his hold on her so his arms were free and she could
remove his shirt completely.  Rena let it fall to the floor and pushed him
back just enough to let her step away from the closed door as she broke
their kiss.  
       Once more she ran her hands over his bare chest, unable to tear her
eyes away, /So beautiful/ she thought, not knowing if she were considering
him as artist or lover and not caring.  She leaned forward slightly tilting her
head so she could run the tip of her tongue around one of his nipples and
felt her own body respond to his moan of pleasure.  Not wanting to neglect
anything, she moved to the other side of his body and repeated her actions
there.  This time, he braced himself against her shoulders as a shiver took
his body.  
       Placing her hands flat against his collarbone and her tongue against
the center of his chest, she slowly knelt allowing her hands and tongue to
trace their way down his body.  On her knees in front of him she brought
her hands around to firmly caress his buttocks and used her chin to rub the
bulge she found just below eye level.  Luke's hands gripped her shoulders
more tightly as he gasped, his back arching slightly and his body
instinctively rising up a little on his toes.  Rena held him close to her face
with one hand and brought the other one to caress him through his jeans.
       Once more she kissed his flat stomach, twining the short hair around
the tip of her tongue. She laughed deep in her throat as he tried
unsuccessfully to still his impulse to thrust.  She looked up and met his
fiery eyes.  Just as she started to move her hand from his stomach to his
buttons, she heard and felt his stomach rumble.  Luke's embarrassment was
as plain on his face as it was under her hand.   
       "Rena, I..."  She laughed as her own stomach echoed his.  Rena
knew he'd heard it because his laugh mingled with hers.
       "I guess it's fate, Luke!" she glanced at the clock as she took his
proffered hand and slowly stood. "No wonder!  It's almost two!  This is
what I  get for making you pose all morning and then revving your engine
before lunch."  Retaining her grip on his hand she led him over to the most
open area of floor.
       "Wait,"  she placed a finger on his lips as he started to protest. 
"Just wait,"  she pulled two large cushions from behind the sofa and
brought them around to where Luke was standing.  She dropped them side
by side and then placing her hands on his shoulders, she urged him to sit. 
       "Just relax while I get the basket,"  she bent down and again
silenced his protest with a gentle finger against his lips.
        "No, now, posing is hard work and it's *my* fault that you missed
lunch. Let me do this.  Besides," a wicked grin crossed her face as she
lightly traced a random design on his bare chest.  "I have plans for you.
Just relax.  But not *too* much."  
       She rose with a throaty laugh and looked down at him through
hooded eyes.  His eyes followed her appreciatively and small intensely
sensuous smile graced his features as he watched her approach her basket.
       "Rena!  I'm shocked.  What would Mrs. Sewell think?"
       In response, she looked back over her shoulder at him and raised her
eyebrows suggestively then turned back and bent over to pick her basket up
from the floor.
       Jean-Luc shifted his position slightly as his body responded to the
sight of Rena's denim clad body before him. /Perhaps it's just as well that
denim hasn't survived into the 24th century./  His grin broadened at the 
thought of how long Riker would be able to maintain his composure if
female crewmembers started wearing jeans off-duty.  He moved over a little
to make more room for Rena as she set her burden down and joined him,
indian-style on the cushions.  
       With exaggerated flair she flipped off the cloth covering the basket's
contents and laid it dramatically on the floor.  Next came wheat rolls,
courtesy of Mrs. Gomez, still smelling faintly of yeast.  Then a bowl of 
quartered fresh strawberries left over from Sunday's Strawberry Shortcake 
Special.  Rena reached back in and produced a small plate containing 4 or
5 different types of cheese which she held out for him to take a piece before
she set it down and took some for herself.  Jean-Luc smiled to himself as
he recognized everything as various leftovers from the week's business.  It
was a perfect illustration of Rena's dilemma.  Part of her wanted to do
extravagant romantic impulsive things.  *That* Rena lived in this apartment
and in the studio and shared a meal of bread, cheese and fruit with her
lover.  
       Then there was the other Rena, the hardheaded businesswoman who
chained herself to a dying town and *somehow* managed to make a go of
a business because she was needed, the one who unabashedly ate leftovers
with her friends.  Rena laid two cloth napkins down and twisted around to
put the basket, and the remainer of it's contents, behind her and out of 
the way.  When she turned back, she held the last of their first course in 
her hands; two glasses and the brandy Jean-Luc had used for their crepes.  
Rena paused a moment, again taken by the sheer *presence* of the man 
reclining before her. 
       /He really has no idea what he does to me.  God!  He's beautiful. 
And so damn *sexy*!/ 
       Setting down the glasses, she poured them each some brandy and set
the bottle down near the strawberries.  Handing him his glass she raised
hers for a toast.
       "To close friends," she paused and lowered her voice a bit, "and to
getting even closer."  
       They each took a drink and Rena set her glass down so she could
more easily lean over and seal their toast with a passionate kiss.
Jean-Luc's free arm went around Rena's waist to hold her as closely as
their awkward positions allowed.  His skin burned where her hand rested
on his side.  She tasted of brandy and cheddar and smelled vaguely of clay
and strawberries, with just a hint of the wintergreen ointment that she'd
used on his shoulder, under it all was her own scent, rich and musky. 
       Suddenly, he didn't want the food anymore.  He wanted *her*.  But
Jean-Luc knew she was right.  Better to pause now than later.  Rena pulled
back, breathing heavily and picking up her glass drained it.
       "I think we'd best deal with the food now," she paused to get control
of her voice and grinned, "before we get sidetracked." 
       Jean-Luc returned her grin and wondered if his face was as flushed
as hers.  
	"After all, my dear, I must keep up my strength."  Jean-Luc took
one of her hands and tenderly kissed her palm.  "I wouldn't want to 
neglect you."

                                 ###

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Subject: A'la Q, Part 6, by Kellie Matthews-Simmons & Julia Kosatka
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      Jean-Luc stirred as the thunder outside penetrated his sleep fogged
brain.  It sounded far off and the sound made him want to drift off again. 
The radio next to Rena's bed was set to a frequency that carried classical 
music, something slow and melodic was playing, but he didn't want to wake up 
enough to think about what it was.  Rena sighed in her sleep and snuggled more 
securely into his arms, a faint smile on her lovely face.  He couldn't remember 
the last time he had the luxury of waking up slowly with a lover in his arms. 
More thunder outside then the light spatter of windblown rain against the 
window.  After over three decades living in space, he couldn't imagine ever 
being planet bound again, but he missed rain.  
       As a child he'd been fascinated  by those few mild storms that were 
allowed on earth.  Once, on Cardelas 9, he, Jack and Walker had managed to 
meet for a week's leave.  Having just been promoted to full lieutenant, he 
outranked them and so, according to the pact they'd made at graduation, he 
choose how they'd spend their leave.  He smiled sleepily at the memory.  His 
friends had expected him to choose a week of wine, women and song in the 
Southern Pleasure Dome.  
       Instead, they went camping on the Western continent, whose wild, wind- 
tossed terrain was swept by short, but severe storms.  Looking back, he knew 
it had been a foolish choice, they could easily have been injured or even 
killed, but few 23-year olds truly believe in their own mortality and he 
couldn't resist the opportunity to experience such intense weather after two 
long years in space.  Thunder boomed outside, closer this time, and Rena 
stirred and drowsily nuzzled his neck, her arm tightening across his chest 
as she stretched.  
      "Ummm... You feel good.  This was a *great* idea."
       Jean-Luc smiled and asked her playfully, "To what, specifically, are 
you referring?"
      "Ummm...," Rena smiled languidly, eyes still closed. "To be honest, 
*all* of it, but *specifically*, moving in here.  My bed is much nicer for 
snuggling than the living room floor."
      Jean-Luc chuckled and struggled to keep his laughter under control. An
absurd image of his security chief sternly saying, "Starship captains *do not*
*snuggle*" sprang into his mind and he controlled the smile that threatened,
not wanting to try and explain his mirth to Rena.  
      "I think the storm has helped some, too.  The temperature has dropped
quite a bit."
      Rena felt somewhat distracted and was unable to concentrate fully on his 
words.  It was enough that, for now, they were together.  She felt safe and
secure in his arms.  There were no customers, no clocks, no unpaid bills, no 
one needing her.  There was just *him*, strong and loving and trustworthy.  It
had been a long time since she felt herself able to depend on someone else.
Rena knew it wouldn't last, she wasn't built that way, but once in a while, it
felt so good to let go and let someone take care of her.  Even if it was only
for a few hours.  She tried to remember how many times they'd made love and 
finally gave it up.  After that first brief explosion of desire, the hours were
a blur of pleasure given and received.  
      As her mental fog slowly cleared, Rena remembered something she'd wanted 
to say earlier, but as usual, had been unable to get the words out.  A friend 
of hers who was into computers had once jokingly said that when Rena's sex 
drive kicked in, it took over all available cpu time and left nothing for 
such mundane processes as speech.  Craning her neck a little she saw in 
the dim light from the window that his eyes were closed and there was a small,
contented smile on his face.  The hand gently stroking her back let her know 
he was awake.  Inching up a little, she softly kissed his jawline, a slow 
mischievous smile spreading across her face.
      "So, *that's* what you meant when you said you didn't want to neglect 
me.  Ah, Jean-Luc," she said teasingly, "you've spoiled me for other men."  
His arms tightened around her in a warm hug as he turned his face to hers and 
breathed a kiss onto her forehead.  
      "Rena, you are anything *but* spoiled.  You deserve a little spoiling."
      "And you're *just* the man for the job,"  she said, grinning.
      "At your service, mademoiselle." 
      They both laughed at their nonsense and a peal of thunder echoed them. 
Rena stiffened a little and sat up.  Her brow furrowed in thought.  Jean-Luc 
sat up beside her, concerned. 
       "Rena?  What's wrong?"
       "I don't know,"  she looked around him to see the clock.  "8:00," she
muttered to herself.  Putting a hand on his thigh, she leaned around him to see
the window. "How long has it been raining?"
       Jean-Luc tried to remember how long he'd been aware of the rain, but 
could only consciously account for a few minutes before Rena woke up and he
told her so.  
       "Rena, what is it?"  
       She got up and walked over to the window to look out.  Concerned with 
her sudden change of mood, Jean-Luc joined her, all traces of sleepiness gone.  
Noting the tension in her body, he put his arm around her shoulders and held 
her close while they looked out into the evening sky.  Rena's arm crept around 
his waist as if for comfort and he was glad for her touch.  What greeted his 
eyes was something never seen on the Earth of *his* century.  The raw power 
of uncaring nature unleashed on the planet.  The eastern sky was streaked with 
bands of roiling black clouds.  As they watched  the wind suddenly picked up, 
twisting oak trees in a manic St. Vitus dance.  The fading light had taken 
on a sickly greenish cast making the wind-tossed trees resemble nothing more 
than souls in torment.  Then the wind died down, and once again the trees were 
only trees.  Jean-Luc chided himself for his absurd flight of fancy.  Rena was 
shaking her head.  
       "This shouldn't be happening.  We shouldn't be seeing *anything* but a
few thunder showers from Freida."  She looked up at Jean-Luc, "She was supposed 
to have come ashore somewhere down around Matagorda sometime this morning.  
They didn't expect her to have enough power to do much more than fizzle out 
once she hit land."  Rena backed away from the window and turned toward the 
bedroom door,
       "C'mon, let's see what we can find out from the TV."  He followed her 
into the living room and, at her gesture, sat on the sofa.  After picking up 
the television's remote control, she joined him, curling up at side, as if she
were unwilling to let this interlude end.
       "Damn thing!"  Rena vented some of her anger with the weather at her
television's expense. "One of these days I'm going to splurge and buy a new
tv that doesn't take an hour and a half to warm up!"  she settled into the
curve of his arm to wait, and to try and calm down some. 
       "Rena, you seem to be taking this storm very personally."  Placing a 
gentle hand under her chin, he tilted her head up to look at him.  Reflected in 
her eyes he saw something he recognized only too well.  He'd seen it looking 
back at him from countless mirrors over the years. 
       "Rena, you can't accept responsibility for *everything* that happens.
The storm is *not* your fault." A wry smile crossed her face and she looked 
away as his words hit home.  
       "I know."  She paused, "You've never lived in a hurricane prone area, 
have you?"  When he shook his head, she continued, wondering why her question 
should make him smile, "I've grown up with them.  Big ones, little ones, all 
kinds.  My father used to say that tropical weather is like a rabid coon, you 
only turn your back on it if you want to get bit.  Well, I turned my back on 
Frieda and now it looks as if she's about to bite me."  
      She grinned as she held up her hand to forestall his comments. 
      "I know, I know, I shouldn't anthropomorphize the weather, but the 
analogy holds.  No one can control the weather, but only a fool ignores it!" 
      Out of the corner of her eye, Rena saw that the tv had finally come on 
and she began switching channels until she found the one Houston station she 
got reliably.  Jean-Luc turned his attention to the screen which showed a 
middle-aged woman apparently interviewing a tired-looking man.  They were 
standing with their backs to a restless body of water, probably either the 
Gulf of Mexico or Galveston Bay, considering the origin of the broadcast.

       "...Frieda has bypassed Galveston, do you think you'll face any
       repercussions for ordering an evacuation if this turns out to be 
       yet another false alarm?"

       The man gave her a tired, long suffering smile, "Elma, I can't 
       count the number of times I've been asked that since becoming
       City Manager for Galveston.  My position is now and has always
       been that there is no such thing as an unnecessary evacuation.
       The people of Galveston have never forgotten the 1900 storm that
       killed so many.  The seawall we're standing on is a physical 
       testament to the constant war we wage against the weather and the
       lengths we are willing to go to to win.  Instead of wondering 
       about the repercussions of evacuating the island and then being
       bypassed by the storm, people should instead think of the 
       repercussions of *not* evacuating the island and *not* being
       bypassed by the storm."
       
       "An excellent point, Mr. Matthews, and one that the people of Galveston 
       seem to agree with you on.  Before we go, is there anything else you'd 
       like to relay to people in this area?"

       "Just that as usual, until the National Weather Service has lifted
       the Hurricane Warning and we are sure that there is no remaining
       threat no one should attempt to return to the island.  The causeway
       will remain closed to all but essential traffic.  As anyone who's
       lived on the Gulf Coast for a while knows, the only safe storm is
       no storm."

       "Thank you for taking the time to speak with us, I won't take up any 
       more of your valuable time."  The beleaguered city manager moved off
       camera and the interviewer continued, "There you have it, Dave.  The
       island is still battened down, but there is a feeling of optimism here
       that was missing just 24 hours ago.  It seems that Galveston may have
       been spared once again.  This is Elma Barrera, Eyewitness News, 
       speaking with Greg Matthews, city manager of Galveston, live from the 
       seawall in Galveston.  Back to you, Dave."

The news report continued and Rena leaned forward as if to make sure she missed 
nothing.  Jean-Luc let the voices fade, trusting Rena to garner the necessary 
information as he thought about what he'd witnessed.  He knew that severe 
weather had always plagued mankind before the advent of reliable weather control
technology in the 22nd century.  Still, once again, he was struck by the 
difference between reading about something in a history book and what those
bare facts meant to those actually *living* it.  His youthful adventure with 
Jack and Walker now seemed childish and embarrassing.  Three spoiled brats 
'challenging the elements'.  He winced at the thought, /Not much challenge,
considering we could have been beamed out at any moment.  These people don't
have that luxury.  Even if they leave, what will be left to come back to?/
Rena sat back and her motion brought Jean-Luc back to the present.  The 
announcer was repeating the highlights of his report, but Rena's expression
told Jean-Luc the most important thing he needed to know.  
       "You're going to have to translate, I'm afraid.  This is all very new 
to me."
       "Frieda's been upgraded to hurricane strength." Rena took a deep breath
and continued, "Her top winds have been clocked by the surveillance planes at 
150 miles an hour.  That puts her 5 miles an hour shy of being a force 5 storm.
They expect her to make landfall sometime early in the morning.  Her current 
position is 29 by 96 and heading due north." Rena looked him in the eye and 
said with a steady voice, 
       "That's on a line almost straight for Ridge."  She looked around the 
room with a dazed look on her face then turned back to him and threw her arms 
around his neck.  His own arms went around her automatically, comforting.  She 
clung to him for a moment and kissed him, then took his face between her palms 
and smiled.
       "You, my friend, are one of the best things to happen to me in a long,
long time.  I just wanted you to know that."
       "And you, Rena, sound like you're saying goodbye."
       "It's that obvious, is it?"  she laughed as he nodded with mock gravity.
"I'm sorry, it's just that I wasn't ready for this to end yet.  Especially not
like this."  
       As they spoke he'd leaned back against the back of the sofa, taking
her with him.  Resting her head on his shoulder, she'd begun idly tracing the
contours of his chest and side with one hand while he stroked her back with
one hand and her thigh with the other.  Both knew they were delaying the 
inevitable, but neither wanted to be the first to say it.
       "You knew that one day I'd be gone," Jean-Luc reminded her gently.
       "I know," Rena's voice faltered and when she met his eyes again, hers
were filled with tears, "It's just that, for some reason, I'm afraid that
this is not just our first time.  I'm afraid that it's our *only* time.  There's
something very strange going on here.  I've felt it for days and now it's 
stronger than ever.  Jean-Luc," there was an odd note in her voice as she 
spoke his name. "Please be careful tonight and tomorrow, please."  when he 
started to reassure her that nothing was going to happen she became more upset. 
       "Promise me!  Please, promise me you'll be careful.  I can't explain
it, but I have this feeling that this is the last time we're going to be 
together and it frightens me."
     "Rena! Rena, I promise!" he held her close, his voice becoming softer
as he tried to calm her fearful trembling, "I'll be careful.  I promise to take
no unnecessary chances, but you, my dear, must promise *me* something."
     "Yes?" sniffing a little, Rena pulled away far enough to see his face. 
     "I want you to promise me to *try* not to worry," he reached out, in
what was becoming a familiar gesture and tucked a lock of Rena's hair behind
her ear.  She smiled, reveling in their newfound intimacy.  He continued softly,
"I've been looking after myself for longer than you think," /And under 
circumstances you can't *possibly* imagine, dear Rena,/ he added to himself.
"Seize the time, Rena.  Live *now*.  Make *now* always the most precious time. 
Now will never come again."
     Once again, he pulled her to him in a warm embrace, his own eyes filling 
as he remembered the first time he'd said those words.  Memories of the time he 
had spent as Kamen, whether real or imagined, still snuck up on him from time 
to time.  He forced his mind away from the compelling image of Meribor as she 
had looked that morning and concentrated on the woman in his arms.  
     "We must always be prepared to make the time we have, no matter how short 
or long, last us a lifetime.  Remember, friends separated are no less friends 
for being apart.  I know that I'll *never* forget you.  Wherever I go, part of 
you will be with me." /Ah, Rena, I don't want to leave you, but the next time 
Q returns, I've got to try and go back./
     Rena wiped tears from her eyes with the back of her hands and cleared
her throat before looking him in the eye, "I promise to *try*," a little 
smile crept onto her face, "...but I can't promise to *succeed*."
     Jean-Luc smiled, "Fair enough." he said and kissed her. She responded 
eagerly as if this kiss might have to last the rest of their lives.
     "I was right,"  she said.  Determined to not let her fear get the best of 
her, Rena sniffed back the rest of her tears and continued at his questioning 
look, 
     "I told you once that your touch was magic," gently stroking his cheek 
and lips with one hand, she continued. "*You* are magic, and you've cast an 
irresistible spell over me."  
     A sudden inspiration came to her and she laughed and clapped her hands in 
delight, "I've got it! I just decided what I'll call your statue.  Do you 
remember the other night when you were reading Shakespeare out loud in your 
room?" 
     He nodded, hoping the embarrassment he *still* felt at the memory of that 
episode didn't show.  
     "When I stuck my head in your room, you read me a bit of The Tempest,"  
a gust of wind from the most recent squall line rattled the windows in 
punctuation, and they both laughed.  "Kind of appropriate, don't you think?"  
Rena's smile faded and was replaced by a look of longing. 
     "Prospero.  You'll always be that to me, and once you've moved on, your 
statue is all I'll have to remember you by."  /C'mon Rena!  Put a lid on it!/  
Rena smiled through her tears and added, "At least I don't think I'll need 
you to sit for me again..." running her hands slowly down his sides and onto 
his thighs, she continued in an intense voice. "I believe that I could finish 
it with my eyes closed."
     Jean-Luc felt warmth flush his face and the first stirrings of desire.
Rena sighed in frustration.  She, too, felt herself responding to the moment,
but the storm wouldn't wait.  Before she could come up with a way to broach the
subject, Jean-Luc spoke.
     "Rena, even though I've never lived on the Gulf Coast, I can imagine
that there are any number of things that need to be done before the storm hits."
     She shot him a grateful look and stood up decisively, hands on her hips.
     "Absolutely!  We've got *tons* of things to do and very little time to do 
them in," holding out one hand to pull him to his feet, she went on.  "So get up
from there, Mister!"  
     He stood, a bittersweet grin on his face.  Rena bent down and picking up 
his jeans tossed them to him with a mischievous grin, "You might need these."
     "Yes, ma'am!"  
     As they both started dressing, Rena started to outline what needed to be 
accomplished.  "First, we can put up some of the storm shutters tonight, but 
most of them will have to wait until tomorrow."
     Jean-Luc looked surprised, "Will there be time?  Isn't the storm due
in the morning?"
     "Ah, a novice!" 
     If Jean-Luc noticed that her grin was a little forced, he kept it to 
himself.  
     "Frieda's leading edge should hit the coast around mid-morning.  All 
we're getting now are some squalls.  It shouldn't get really bad here until 
closer to noon.  Once this squall line passes, we'll put up the shutters on 
the front windows.  Until we can do that, would you mind going down and 
throwing a load of laundry into the washer?  I usually do that on Mondays, 
but I got a little, *sidetracked* today."
     Rena had shown him how to use the washer a couple of days before. A
rather primitive device, but it produced surprisingly good results.  Another
'temporal' prejudice shattered.  "I'll be happy to, but... " he wasn't sure
how to say this without sounding like he was second guessing her.  Rena saved
him the trouble of having to ask.
     "...but why are we wasting time washing clothes?" she grinned, "It's
not the waste of time it seems to be.  After Frieda passes we may be days 
without clean water or electricity other than from our generator.  Clean towels
and sheets make great bandages and clean clothes help to make up for being
restricted to sponge baths."
      Jean-Luc nodded his understanding, but kept his thoughts to himself. 
Injuries were to be expected, but it hadn't occurred to him that basic services 
like power and water might be disrupted by a mere *storm*.  Of course, such 
storms weren't allowed to happen in his time.  He was beginning to understand 
why.
      "Once you've got that started," Rena had picked up a pad of paper and
a pen and begun writing down their list of things that needed to be done, "go 
to the store room and look on the top shelf in the back.  You'll find several 
large plastic containers, you know, the kind that look a little like balloons? 
Get 'em down, rinse 'em out and start filling them up with tap water.  That may 
be our only source of drinking water if the town's wells are contaminated.  
Next,... " Rena went on outlining their plan of action and he thought fleetingly
that with her organizational skills and intuition she'd have made someone a 
fine first officer.  Since he was looking over her shoulder, she couldn't see 
the grin on his face. With a silent sigh he brought his mind back to what she 
was saying.  
      "... so you go on down and get started and I'll see if I can't get Jake
on the phone and find out when he can send one of the boys over to help us out 
with the storm shutters," she handed him the list, "I'll be down as soon as I
talk to Jake."  He nodded, scanning the page as he took it from her hand.
      "Rena... " he stopped, not really sure what he wanted to say.
      She looked at him, grinned and winked.  "No, Jean-Luc.  If we get started 
with this mutual admiration society thing, it could go on forever!  We don't 
have time, so get your attractive little butt downstairs and get busy!"
      He looked at her incredulously for a moment, wondering if he'd heard her
correctly.  Her impish grin told him he had.  He grinned back, shaking 
his head, and headed for the stairs, only to be brought up short by her
voice.
      "Oh, and Luke... turn on all the lights in the restaurant and unlock
the door.  We're kind of an unofficial shelter, and we might have travelers
and other folks coming by.   You may as well put coffee on too, it's going
to be a long night."

                                ###

      Rena was right about it being a long night.  Not long after he'd 
finished filling water containers and starting the laundry, two brawny
young men had arrived to fuel up the emergency generator Rena's father
had put in after Hurricane Carla in 1961, and to help put up the storm 
shutters.  The wind and rain had obligingly died down enough that they were 
able to get most of the shutters up.  Once that was finished, Rena recruited 
them to help her carry several sculptures in from the shed in the back yard, 
since she wasn't sure it would withstand the storm.  Before they had finished 
that task, a station-wagon drove up and disgorged a man and his three kids who 
had been en route to Houston and needed a place to take refuge from the rapidly
worsening storm.  At that point Rena had Jean-Luc bring the television down 
from the living room so the kids could have a familiar distraction.  It also 
kept everyone abreast of storm-related developments, like the fact that Frieda 
was travelling faster that originally predicted.
      Larry Cox and his daughter Ruth were the next to arrive, Larry seemingly
depressed that due to his arthritis he was no longer physically able to do 
the things needed to secure their home against the storm.  Then Sueann called 
and asked if Rena could come get her, because she was afraid to stay by herself.
Rena had sent Larry out to get her, which made him feel better and spared her 
to continue working.  
      Things went like that most of the night, though just after one it calmed 
down enough for Rena and Jean-Luc to slip upstairs and grab a short nap.  They 
did so together, in Rena's bed, but they were both too tired to do more than 
sleep. All too soon a tap at the door came.  Rena looked at the clock and 
sighed.  It was three am.  Trying to get up without waking Jean-Luc, she 
slipped from the bed and opened the door to find Sueann there, her face pale,
and her eyes apprehensive.
      "Rena... I..."  she started, then trailed off, looking quite peculiar.
      "What is it Sueann?  You see a ghost?"
      Sueann gasped, and shook her head.  "Rena, I think I'm havin' it!  The
baby, I mean!  I been having back spasms for three or four hours now, but I 
thought they were just what Doc Lacey calls Braxton-Hicks contractions, since 
I'm not due for weeks yet, but all the sudden there was water everywhere!"
      A quick glance confirmed that Sueann's maternity dress was soaking wet
from about mid-thigh down.  Rena bit the inside of her lip, not sure whether 
she wanted to laugh, or cry.  She did neither.
      "Well, that's just like a baby, isn't it?  They *do* pick the worst
times to arrive!  I'll call Doc... how far apart are your contractions?"
      "They haven't been very steady, sometimes half an hour, sometimes less."
      That was somewhat of a relief.  Most of what Rena knew about childbirth
had been garnered from television, but everything she'd seen seemed to indicate 
that the contractions had to be much closer together before you had to start 
worrying about anything.  Rena stepped into the hall and steered Sueann toward 
her brother's room as she talked, one hand comfortingly on her shoulder.  
      "Well, that doesn't sound too urgent, yet.  You lie down in Gabe's room 
for awhile, and give me your dress, I'll wash it out and dry it for you."
      As they opened the door and went in, Sueann slanted a curious glance at 
Rena.  "I thought Luke was usin' Gabe's room."
      Rena felt her face heat, and couldn't suppress a grin as she replied with
deliberate emphasis.  "Well, Sueann, he *was*."
      Sueann's distressed air fell away as she looked at Rena in mock-surprise.
      "Why Rena Taylor!  Whatever would Pastor Robbins say?"
      Rena winked at her. "The same thing he says about you, love!  Now 
come on, you need to rest and conserve your strength, or some such nonsense
like that."
      Sueann laughed and nodded, pulling the smock-like dress awkwardly off 
over her head as Rena folded back the covers on the bed.  After tucking Suean 
in, she picked up the dress and headed out again.
      "Now if you need anything you just holler, okay?"
      "Okay, and Rena..."
      "Yes?"
      Sueann winked, and grinned.  "Sorry if I interrupted anythin'."
      Rena smiled back.  "You didn't... this time.  It's been too crazy
around here to even *think* about that!"
      "Aww, that's a shame.  I like him, Rena.  He's nice."
      Rena smiled.  "That, Sueann, is the understatement of the year!  
Now rest!"
      Sueann nodded and settled back, closing her eyes.  Rena closed the
door, leaned against it, and sighed deeply.  As she did, her bedroom door
opened and Jean-Luc stepped out, looking disgustingly alert for someone who'd
just been woken up.
      "Is anything wrong?" he queried softly.
      Rena smiled wryly, and shook her head.  "Not exactly, just a case of
bad timing.  Sueann's in labor,"  she paused, then in response to his lifted
eyebrows continued.  "It's early days yet, but I'm going to go call Dr. Lacey
just to be sure."
      He nodded.  "I couldn't sleep anyway, there's far too much to be done,
yet.  I'm going down to see if there's anything else I can do."
      Rena nodded, understanding.  He wasn't the sort of man who would be able
to just sit around waiting.  There was nothing for it but to accept her fate
graciously and give up all thought of lying in his arms for a bit longer.
As she thought it, she felt again the cold shiver of premonition finger down
her spine.  She caught his hand and pulled him down for a kiss, putting all
her desire into it.  He returned it, one hand splayed wide across her lower 
back, drawing her firmly against him; the other one cupped behind her head, 
fingers teasing shivers from her by stroking lightly behind her ear.  She
was reminded all too clearly of what she was missing out on by staying up.  
Finally, with a sigh, she pulled away from him, her face conveying the
regret she felt.
      "I really do have to go call the doctor, Luke."
      "I know,"  he said, the regret in his eyes echoing her own.
      They walked together into the living room where she stopped and lifted
the handset of the phone while he went on toward the stairs.  She watched,
admiring his lean, muscular form, until he had disappeared down the stairs,
then she realized there was no dial tone.  Frowning, she depressed the switch-
hook several times, with no success.  She swore softly, realizing that the 
phone lines were obviously out already.  It was early-on for that!   She put 
down the phone and stood for a moment, listening to the wind howl, and the 
rain lash.  This was no squall.  It sounded as if Frieda's leading edge had 
already arrived.  Even as she thought it, the building shook as if a car had 
run into it, and she heard a tearing, creaking sound as shingles ripped away 
from the roof.  Within seconds, Sueann was out of Gabe's room, a blanket 
clutched around her half-clad form.
      "Rena?  What was that?"
      "Just some shingles, Sueann, but it does make me a bit concerned.  I'm
going to make up a place for you downstairs, just in case this gets worse.
This building has withstood more than one hurricane, but there's been damage
to the roof almost every time, and I wouldn't want you to be up here if that
happens."
      "Me either!"  Sueann agreed vehemently, casting an uneasy glance at the
ceiling.  "Can I come down with you?"
      "You feel up to it?"
      Sueann nodded.  "It'll be awhile before the next contraction, if things
go on like they are.  Did you get the doctor?"
      "I..."  Rena hesitated, not wanting to tell Sueann the news about the 
phones.  "...got his machine.  I'm sure he'll be along soon; he's probably
boarding up, or getting things ready for emergencies,"  she crossed her fingers
against the lie, and hoped that she was right.  The diner had always been the
place where people congregated whenever a storm came, the doctor included.  
No doubt he would arrive long before Sueann really needed him.  If worse came
to worst, she would go get him. 


                                ###

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Subject: A'la Q, Part 7, by Kellie Matthews-Simmons & Julia Kosatka
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      "Rena?" Jean-Luc handed her a cup of tea and glanced through the pass-
through to where Sueann lay.  "How is she?"
      Rena set her tea down on the counter and sighed, "I don't know.  I 
don't have *any* experience in this sort of thing.  Jake's the closest we've 
got to an experienced hand and his youngest son is 18."  Rena rubbed her eyes 
and stifled a yawn.  They were both exhausted.  Any benefit they'd gained from 
the few hours of sleep they'd managed to catch during all the preparations for 
the storm was rapidly disappearing.  
      "She needs the doctor, Jean-Luc, but with the phones out, and the wind
this bad, I don't know how to reach him."
      They lapsed into silence, with only the storm's comments to punctuate
their thoughts.  
      Jean-Luc squeezed Rena's shoulder and went to speak with Jake who
was sitting with Sueann. "How is she?"
      "Sleeping fer now, poor thing.  I 'member Sara doin' that, dozin' off
between pains."
      "Jake, where is the doctor likely to be right now?"  Jean-Luc lowered
his voice so only Jake could hear him.
      "I s'pect," Jake lowered his voice to match, "he'd be home tryin' to 
keep his office in one piece fer after t'storm,"  Jake looked at him 
suspiciously, "That's a bitch of a storm out there, Luke.  Whachew got on
your mind?"
      Jean-Luc glanced at the front windows as a particularly heavy gust 
rattled the shutters, then back to Jake as he simply said, "Sueann needs a 
doctor."    
      Jake nodded soberly.  "S'true and there's no way I'd get 2 feet with
this bum leg o'mine."  He looked at Jean-Luc again and nodded.  "Miss Rena
always wus a good judge a' people."  With that cryptic comment, Jake 
proceeded to tell him how to find the doctor's house.  It wasn't far and 
there were several structures he could use for shelter from the wind on the 
way.  Jean-Luc repeated the directions until he was certain he'd be able to 
find the way.  There would be no one to ask for directions once he left the 
diner.  
      "Jake," Jean-Luc paused as his voice dropped lower, he didn't like what 
he felt he had to do, but he liked the alternative even less, "I don't want 
Rena to know about this until after I'm gone."
      Jake nodded knowingly.  "My Sara, God rest her, could be a holy terror
when she got her back up about somethin'.  It took a brave man to face her
when she took the bit in her teeth.  What the women folk don't know they cain't
skin ya fer," Jake grinned then took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from 
his face, though he seemed to linger a little longer than necessary around his 
eyes.  When he began again, his voice had acquired an edge, "Miss Rena's always 
reminded me a bit of my Sara..."  catching Jean-Luc's eyes again, he continued,
"She's a fine woman. Deserves better than this busted up diner."
      Jean-Luc nodded and looked over at Sueann, unable to meet Jake's eyes
again.  He knew what Jake was implying and wondered if anyone else had noticed.
He also knew Jake was right about Rena.  She did deserve better than this.  
Living here in Ridge she'd spend the rest of her life trying to do what's best
for others and *not* what's best for her, and that would end up ruining her.  He
shook his head, and left his reply as unspoken as the question.
      "The wind's dying down again.  I should go."
      "I'll get Miss Rena's attention," Jake held out his hand, "Godspeed,
Luke."  
      Jean-Luc shook the proffered hand and slowly wandered toward the front
of the diner as if to check for leaks.  A moment or so later he casually
glanced around the diner and saw Jake motion Rena into the kitchen where 
Sueann was.  Taking his cue, he carefully freed the deadbolt and opened the 
door.  The wind was still fairly quiet, in one of the lulls that appeared 
periodically as the bands of the storm swept over the landscape.  He looked out 
for a moment to get his bearings, then slipped out into the storm.
      The clock in the diner said it was mid-afternoon, but to Jean-Luc's eyes 
it might as well be twilight.  The street outside the diner looked like a war 
zone.  Debris littered the street and sidewalk.  Two buildings across the 
street were gone.  Not just destroyed, but gone. The light was too dim to see 
much beyond that.  The comparative silence in conjunction with the destruction 
around him sent an atavistic shiver up his spine.  
      /It looks like Sheffield Station./  He'd been first officer on the
Stargazer during the Cardassian War.  They'd responded to a distress call from
Sheffield Station, a thriving outpost not far from the Cardassian border.  When
the Stargazer arrived, they found the outpost leveled.  The air had been so 
fouled by ash and smoke that the area was shrouded in eerie twilight for days. 
Most of the inhabitants were lucky enough to have been killed outright in the 
attack.  Others were not so fortunate since the Cardassian troops arrived as 
soon as the bombardment stopped.  Half the away team he'd lead were sick 
within minutes.  All of them suffered nightmares for weeks afterward, despite
intense counseling.  One junior officer had resigned a month later.  
      There were no bodies hanging from shattered buildings in Ridge, but his 
tired mind supplied them anyway.  Jerking his mind away from such morbid 
thoughts, he concentrated on the task at hand.  Fortunately, Jake had given his 
directions in terms of city blocks rather than landmarks.
      Jean-Luc stepped out into a deceptively gentle rain.  Before he'd gone
three feet the gentle shower had become a downpour.  He was glad he hadn't
burdened himself with anything in a vain attempt to keep the rain off.  Nothing 
available in this century would help.  In seconds he was soaked to the skin.
Reaching the end of the block, he saw something huge stretched out in front of
him, blocking his way.  As he got closer he identified the object, /My God!/
He'd marveled at this when Rena first showed it to him and now it lay across
the road twisted and splintered.  
      It was a tree, but not just any tree. This oak, as Rena had told him, 
had seen the beginning of air flight.  It provided shade to Confederate 
soldiers weary from fighting a loosing war.  Local legend said that Sam 
Houston camped under this tree on his way to accept the Presidency of the 
Republic of Texas.  Tejas Indians may have met the first European settlers to 
the area and showed them the ways of the Gulf Coast under the shade of the 
young oak.  Now it lay as ruined as the town that had grown up around it.  
Jean-Luc gripped the side of the tree and started to scale it when the wind 
hit him full in the face and slammed him down to the pavement. Eyes closed,
he rolled over to keep the rain from pounding his face while he caught his 
breath, wondering how he thought he'd be able to survive this.  Suddenly 
there was silence.  The rain and wind had stopped, and when he opened his 
eyes he found himself surrounded by a gentle glow.  
      "Why Jean-Luc, what*ever* are you doing?  When last we met you were 
positively cocky!  Now I find you lying face down in the street, soaking wet,
riddled with self-doubt?  I might expect this kind of behavior from Micro-brain
but not from *you*, Mon Capitain.  What would your superiors think?  What would 
*Riker* think?"  
      Jean-Luc rolled to his knees to find Q perched on the dead oak, shaking
his head in mock disapproval.  They seemed to be surrounded by a bubble of calm,
rain sheeting off all around them, but none of it reaching them.
      "Lucky for you that I've been looking out for you.  You humans are so 
fragile that even this *insignificant* atmospheric disturbance would make 
*mincemeat* out of you if left to your own puny devices."
      "Q!"  Jean-Luc cut the entity off abruptly as he got to his feet, 
wiping rain from his face.  Remembering his predicament, and that Q was the 
only way out, he took a deep breath and continued in a more normal tone of 
voice. "Q, what do you want?"
      "What do I want?" Q smiled and laughed as he disappeared in a flash of
light and reappeared standing in front of Jean-Luc still grinning widely.
Placing his hands on Jean-Luc's shoulders he continued jovially.  "What do I 
want?  Why to take you *home*, Mon Capitain!"  
      Q's smile faded and his face took on a look of mild disgust as he 
realized that his hands were dirty and wet from touching Jean-Luc's shoulders. 
A flash of light and they were both dry and Jean-Luc was now in uniform. 
      "This *place* is positively *dreary*!  I really am quite embarrassed 
to have thought of this little adventure."  Q moved to Jean-Luc's side and 
placed a companionable arm around his now-dry shoulders.  "You see," he 
continued in an aggrieved tone.  "I've been under some stress lately, and not 
up to my usual standards. You know how it is."
      "We've *all* been under stress lately, Q."  Jean-Luc managed to keep 
most of the anger out of his voice.  He didn't want to make Q angry.  He *had*
to get back to the Enterprise.
      Q laughed delightedly and clapped him on the back, his good humor 
restored as if Picard's opinion and approval were the most important things in 
the universe.  "I knew you'd understand, Mon ami!  Come!  Bid this... *place* 
adieu and let us return to your ship!"
      "Wait!"  
      "Oh, what is it, *now*, Picard?"
      "I can't just leave, Q!  I have to get the doctor!  I've got a woman
in labor back there, and she needs help!"
      Q lifted an eyebrow.  "Oh?  My, my, Jean-Luc, you *do* work fast,
don't you?"  Noticing Picard's growing anger with his flippancy, Q continued, 
his irritation showing.  "You humans, so obsessed with procreation!  If you're
not *making* babies, you're having them!  A messy, impractical process to say 
the least!"  he looked back at the diner, and sighed.  "Oh, very well, if you 
feel you must.  I can't have you whining about this every time we meet from 
now on!"  
      Picard's dry uniform was replaced once more by soggy denim and chambray.
The shock of cold and wet made him gasp, and Q grinned derisively.
      "It was your choice, mon capitain though I suppose I *could* make
things a bit easier for you..."
      They were no longer standing in a sort of bubble in the street, but on 
the front porch of a house.  Letters stenciled on the window in the door read: 
James K. Lacey, M.D.


      
                              ###
  

      Rena patted Sueann's hand with more assurance than she felt.  "Just rest,
Sueann, and I'll go get you some crushed ice to suck on."  One of the few things
Rena knew about childbirth is that at *some* point the expectant mother should 
stop eating.  So far, Sueann hadn't asked for anything but water so they hadn't
tried to convince her to eat. 
      Wearily, Rena got to her feet and turned toward the kitchen.  Before 
she'd taken a half dozen steps she heard the wind come up again outside.  Just 
as the thought registered, she jumped as the front door crashed back on its 
hinges and the wind roared into the diner dumping rain and debris on them all.  
Sueann screeched that the building was collapsing as Jake assured her it wasn't 
and tried to block her from the worst of the wind.  Rena staggered out of the 
direct path of the wind so she could get to the door and close it. 
      /Damn!  How did that happen!?!  I *know* I threw the deadbolt!/ She 
reached the door and struggled with it for a moment until she was able to get
some purchase against the wind.  Ironically, she found it easier to pull the
door closed into the wind than to push against the wind.  She grinned maniacally
as an image of her locking herself out of the diner in an effort to close the
door popped into her mind.  Facing the street with her right hand pulling on 
the door, Rena reached out and grasped the door frame with her left and 
slowly pulled the door closed.  Once she got the door mostly closed she 
couldn't resist looking out.  
     She wasn't prepared for the devastation that greeted her.  The old 
furniture store and the donut shop across the street were missing, apparently 
picked up and carried away on the wind.  Visibility was poor, and thankfully 
so.  She could see massive tree limbs and pieces of buildings lying haphazardly 
in the street.  Suddenly a bright flash drew her attention down the block.  At 
first she thought it was lightening and shut her eyes against it, but this 
close the thunder should have all but knocked her off her feet.  When no sound 
ripped into her ears she opened her eyes to see if she could figure out what 
had happened.  
      /That's impossible./  She closed her eyes again and opened them, but the
scene hadn't changed.  There was a bubble of softly glowing light, for want of 
a better description, in the middle of the street.  Two figures and part of a
broken tree were inside it.  
      /Jean-Luc!/ She finally recognized one of them as he picked himself off
the street although it was too far away to see who the other was.  Hardly 
realizing what she was doing, Rena pulled the door closed the rest of the way 
and found herself outside the diner.  She found part of a two by four within 
reach on the ground and picking it up she used it as a locking bar on the diner 
door by running it through the handle. As she worked her mind was still trying 
to comprehend what her eyes were telling it.
      /Maybe it's St. Elmo's fire.  Like they see on ships at sea./  She 
began creeping up the street, hugging the building for support against the 
wind, watching the figures as she approached.  They appeared to be talking.
The stranger was sitting on the tree, then in a flash of light, he was
standing in front of Jean-Luc grasping his shoulders.  Before she could think
about what just happened there was another flash and Jean-Luc was now dry and
dressed in a strange looking outfit of black and red.  It was like nothing
she'd ever seen before, but had an indefinable *uniform* quality to it.  As one
part of her mind tried to reconcile the strange events of the past few moments,
she found herself thinking, of all things, that he looked much more at home in 
these clothes.
      /That flash!  I've seen it before!/  Rena knew it wasn't St. Elmo's
fire.  St. Elmo's fire didn't make people move from place to place or change
someone's clothes.  This was something *different*.  Jean-Luc was arguing 
with the stranger or rather, the stranger was arguing with Jean-Luc, who 
stood in the center of the stranger's frenetic personal whirlwind.  The 
stranger seemed somehow *familiar* but Rena couldn't place him.
      /The man in the diner that Jean-Luc was so worried about!/  Once she'd
identified the stranger, Rena crouched down behind a sheet of plywood that had
wedged in the rubble to watch.  Idly she noticed that it was the sign from 
Konchaba's Hardware Store, carried two miles by the wind.  She ducked into a 
shadow as Jean-Luc gestured angrily back toward the diner.  He seemed to be 
refusing to do something the other wanted.  Another flash of light and Jean-Luc 
was dressed again in his rain soaked clothes then <flash> and they, and the 
bubble, vanished.


                        ###


      Jean-Luc braced himself against the wind and turned to speak to Q only
to find that he was alone on the doctor's porch.  Recovering, he pounded on 
the door, hoping he could make himself heard over the wind and rain.  An 
eternity later a dim warm light appeared behind the boards covering the 
doctor's front window and the door crashed open.  Jean-Luc stumbled in and
then turned to help the older man push it closed.
      "Are you alright?" The man, whom Jean-Luc vaguely recognized as Dr.
Lacey put a hand on Jean-Luc's arm and guided him to a nearby chair. Jean-Luc
nodded trying to catch his breath.
      "You're soaked to the skin!  Sit here a minute and relax, I've got some 
coffee on.  Be right back."  As he turned to go, he handed Jean-Luc a couple
of towels from a stack near the door.  Doctor Lacey left him the light, some
kind of fairly sophisticated flame lamp that put off a strong warm light. 
Looking around he found himself in an entryway with three doors.  One door at
the left end was closed, the one next to him apparently led to the doctor's 
living quarters.  The last door was open and the light showed him hints of glass
cabinets and silver instruments.
      /His clinic.  Beverly would love to see the inside of that room./  He
was on the verge of standing up and moving closer for a better look when Dr.
Lacey returned with two steaming mugs.  Jean-Luc realized he was cold.  The
tropical rain was warm but once inside, a chill started to settle into his
bones.
      "Here, see if this won't help get your blood pumping again."  He thanked
him and taking the mug took a long swallow and coughed at the liquid fire going
down his throat.  Dr. Lacey laughed, "You didn't think I'd offer a man nothing
but *coffee* in a situation like this?" 
      Jean-Luc finally recovered enough to ask, "What *is* this?"
      Dr. Lacey took a drink from his own mug and said, "Southern Comfort.
One of the finest blended whiskeys ever made."  Raising his mug in a toast, he
proclaimed, "To the distiller's art! Paintings grace the walls of our museums, 
music delights the ears, but *this* is what makes life worth living." They each
drank and now that he knew what to expect, Jean-Luc had to admit that it was
an interesting combination.
      "So, since I imagine you're not just out taking an afternoon stroll, 
someone must need my services.  How's Sueann doing?"
      Jean-Luc couldn't help but grin.  With all the stress of the past hours,
Dr. Lacey's irreverent manner was as invigorating as his 'coffee'.  
      "How did you know I'm here about Sueann?" 
      It was the doctor's turn to grin now, "I love to do that to people!"
Dr. Lacey stood and picking up the lantern, motioned Jean-Luc to follow him 
into his office, "Ever since I was 10 years old and discovered Sherlock Holmes 
I've wanted to be able to tell someone what they do for a living, what they had 
for lunch and how much they hated their third grade teacher all from an ink 
stain on their left thumb."  The doctor laughed as he set down his lantern and
began assembling his equipment, Jean-Luc chuckled along with him.  
      "Have you ever managed it?"
      "Oh, no, but it's not from lack of trying.  I *have*, however, learned
to spot the tiniest speck of chocolate on one of my diabetics' clothes or a 
smear of hamburger grease on a heart patient's sleeve.  Comes in handy in my
line."  He moved the lantern over to a class and chrome cabinet and pulling
some keys out of his pocket began to unlock it.
      "Now, tell me as much as you can about Sueann's condition and what's
been done for her."
      Jean-Luc described her symptoms, when they started, everything he 
could remember.  Dr. Lacey listened intently, only occasionally interrupting 
to ask a question or clarify a point.  
      "Are there any other injuries?" he asked once he had all the information
he needed about Sueann. 
      "A few minor cuts and bruises, but nothing serious."
      Dr. Lacey nodded, "Good.  Sueann's a strong young woman and from what
you've told me she's doing just fine.  Give me a few minutes to collect the
rest of what I need and pack it for the trip out and we'll get going."
      Knowing that he could be of no assistance to the man, Jean-Luc stayed 
out of his way.  In its current position, the lantern illuminated a wall of 
framed documents and pictures.  There were several frames containing
diplomas and certificates.  He'd seen similar documents in museums and on the
holodeck, but there was something exciting about seeing them in place and in
person that made him grin with pleasure.  
      /Yes, Beverly would *love* to see this.  What a shame she couldn't
be here right now./  Among the photographs was a newspaper clipping from a 
Houston paper, complete with a grainy picture of a young woman who looked
vaguely familiar.  After scanning the story he found that her name was Alice
McCoy and as a geneticist, was one of seven scientists in the world to be 
selected to work on a special recombinant DNA project for the World Health
Organization.   
       "I'm real proud of my Alice.  She's a talented girl."  Jean-Luc turned
to see Dr. Lacey standing behind him, one bag slung over his shoulder and 
another in his hand.  "Got any children of your own?"
       "Ah," Jean-Luc nodded, that explained why she looked so familiar, "she's
your daughter?  I thought she looked familiar.  She resembles you a great deal."
Realizing that he had never answered the doctor's question, he spoke, pushing
aside thoughts of Meribor and Batai.  "No, no children." 
       "Well, you're young yet.  No sense rushing into things, right?" 
grinning, he slapped Jean-Luc on the back and picking up the lantern, headed 
toward the office door, "Let's get going.  We'll go the back way," he explained 
over his shoulder, "it should be much faster.  A little wetter, maybe, but 
faster."
       Jean-Luc followed the older man out and through the door into his living
quarters.  Something he'd seen on Dr. Lacey's wall was tickling the edge of his 
mind.  Then it came to him, age.  Once again he was struck by how much faster 
people aged in this century.  According to the diploma on his wall, Dr. Lacey 
graduated with his first degree from the University of Texas in 1949.  Assuming 
he was 22 at the time, that made them almost the same age.  They reached the 
outside door before he could continue that train of thought.  
       "Wind's down a bit," the doctor observed, his hand on the deadbolt,
"Maybe the eye passing over.  Weatherman thought we might catch the edge of
it,"  catching Jean-Luc's eye he nodded, "Best to go while the goin's good. No
tellin' how long this calm will last."  
       With that, he opened the door and they stepped out onto the remains of 
the doctor's back porch.  It was obvious to Jean-Luc that Dr. Lacey hadn't 
looked out since he boarded up his windows. To do him credit, he only paused 
for a moment as he took in the wreckage that used to be his neighbors' homes.  
Without a word he gestured and took off with ground-covering strides in the 
general direction of the diner.  As difficult as Jean-Luc's journey out had 
been, this was, in its own way, much worse.  The ground was muddy and sometimes
they found themselves wading through knee-deep water.
       The closer they got, the more alert Jean-Luc became, expecting Q to 
appear at any moment.  /Let me get back long enough to say goodbye, Q,/ he 
thought.   Soon the diner was in sight and both men sighed with relief.  Dr. 
Lacey stopped and  leaned against a sagging wall to catch his breath.  Picard
felt a touch of concern, and gestured toward the bags the other man carried.
       "Doctor, I'd be glad to carry one of those for you."
       Dr. Lacey smiled and shook his head, "No, thank you.  The day I can't
carry my own equipment is the day I retire my shingle."  
       A strong gust of wind heralded the end of their grace period.  As they 
started off once more, the rain started again, as hard as ever.  Soon they were 
struggling against the wind, which had switched directions as the other side of
the storm began to move over the area.  Jean-Luc lost sight of the diner 
completely as a curtain of rain closed around him, and simply followed what he 
could see of the doctor's back as best he could, trusting the other man to find 
his way in the maelstrom.
       Slogging through a particularly swampy area, Jean-Luc lost his footing 
and went down, face first into the calf deep water.  Struggling up again,
he tried to call out to his companion, but the wind ripped the words from his 
throat and whirled them away, unheard.  Within seconds he was alone.  He 
leaned into the wind and continued in what he hoped was the right direction.  
       Soon there was a structure in front of him.  Through the heavy downpour 
it was difficult to identify until he was actually upon it.  It was Rena's 
studio.  Amazed that it was still standing, he crouched next to it, glad of 
the limited shelter it offered from the driving rain and wind.  After catching 
his breath and orienting himself, he stepped away from the wall of the studio 
and into... calm, surrounded by a familiar soft glow.
       "My dear Jean-Luc!  Look at you!"  Q stepped out of the light, shaking his
head in disapproval.  "You're a mess!"  



                                      ###

       Rena sat crouched behind the Konchaba's Hardware store sign, all but
oblivious to the storm that raged around her.  The thoughts that raged in her
mind were more than a match for the weather.  She had no idea how long she had
sat there, too stunned by what she'd seen to move.  What *had* she seen?  
People just did *not* move from place to place in a flash of light.  That bubble
that had appeared and sheltered the two of them from the wind and rain.  What 
*was* that?  No natural phenomena *she* knew of could account for it.  Possibly 
the most disturbing part of the whole thing was Jean-Luc's apparent acceptance 
of the *impossible* event.  He had seemed concerned with the other man's demands 
rather than with the events themselves.  Indeed, he seemed to accept them as 
natural!  Or perhaps, Rena shivered in the warm rain at this thought, it's just
that they *seemed* normal compared to the 'man' he argued with.
       /Enough! That's enough!  You've got things to do and people depending
on you!  You don't have the leisure to sit here and worry about this.  The best
thing to do is go back and *ask* Jean-Luc about it, face-to-face, when he gets
back with the doctor./  
       Rena looked around and realized that the rain had momentarily stopped.  She 
was in luck.  If she tried she could get back inside before the calm passed.  As she 
hurried back to the diner, she tried not to think about the last thought that ran 
through her mind.  
       /*If* he comes back./
       Back inside, she faced a thousand questions.  Rather than try to explain
the inexplicable, she merely said that in trying to close the door she'd gotten
trapped outside, but found adequate temporary shelter.  Mrs. Gomez fussed over
her, scolding her for trying to do everything herself and insisting that she 
get into some dry clothes.  Rena let Mrs. Gomez shoo her upstairs where she
quickly changed into dry jeans and a dry shirt.  Wrapping her short hair in a
towel she quickly checked for leaks before going back down to do the same 
there.  She wanted to keep her mind too busy to worry over what she'd witnessed.
       Surprisingly there was no sign of any leaking.  Not even around the 
windows.  Her father had often bragged that when he built the diner, he built 
it so tight that if he couldn't make a go of the restaurant business he'd put 
an engine on the place and go into deep sea salvage work.  The memory brought 
a tired smile to her face and she briefly wondered what her father would have 
thought of her little adventure, and of Jean-Luc.  The rattle of the wind 
against the shuttered windows brought her mind back to the present.  The storm 
was back.
       "Mrs. Gomez," Rena caught the other woman's eye and motioned her over,
"Luke's gone for the doctor for Sueann, would you help me get some food ready
for everyone.  It's been a stressful day and I think a hot meal would be a 
good distraction for everyone."
       "And you can't stand not having something to do!"  Mrs. Gomez replied, a 
slight smile on her pleasant, round face.  
       "You know me too well!"  
       They both laughed a little and Rena led the way into the kitchen.  
       "At least the propane tank is full.  We won't have to worry about 
trying to cook over a kerosene stove."  
       They got started preparing a fairly elaborate meal.  It made sense 
both as a morale builder and also as a method of using up some of the 
perishables from Rena's refrigerator and freezer.  Though the generator was
working just fine right now, it had been hours since the main power went out, 
and she would run out of fuel for the generator long before electricity was 
restored, if she was any judge.  Better to cook it and *give* the food away 
than to let it spoil then *throw* it away.  
       Rena had just popped a second chicken into the oven to bake when she 
heard a pounding on the back door.  Relief washed over her as she rushed over 
to the door.  She threw the deadbolt and stepped out of the way as the wind 
sent the door crashing back against the wall, then her heart sank as she saw 
Dr. Lacey stagger in, alone.  Using the door frame to brace herself against 
the wind she peered out into the dim late afternoon, getting drenched again in 
the process.  Mrs. Gomez' tugging at her arm was the only thing that kept her 
from going out to find Jean-Luc.  With Mrs. Gomez's help she got the back door 
closed and bolted, then turned toward the doctor who'd collapsed, exhausted, 
onto a stool.
       "Jean-Luc?"  the tightness in her chest moved into her throat as the
doctor shook his head, his expression concerned.
       "He was right behind me and then, the next thing I knew, I was by 
myself,"  seeing Rena blanch, he went on in a comforting tone.  "But he's 
a tough one, and smart, too.  We were pretty close to here when we got 
separated.  He probably lost me in the storm and found shelter somewhere.  
He'll make it, Rena.  Don't you worry 'bout that, he'll make it."  
       Rising, he put on his best 'doctor' expression.  "Now, where's our 
little mother?  I understand we've got a young 'un who can't wait to make 
an appearance."
       As Mrs. Gomez started to lead the way, Rena spoke up. "Dr. Lacey, I'll
put a pot of water on to boil in case you need to sterilize anything.  Is 
there anything else you think you'll need?
       He stopped and thought a moment before answering in a serious tone, 
"You wouldn't happen to have a bottle of Southern Comfort on hand, would you?"
       Rena giggled while Mrs. Gomez tried her best to look scandalized.
     "I'll see what I can find."
       "Thank you, Rena.  You're a credit to your profession,"  with that
he followed Mrs. Gomez over to see his patient.  
       Rena got her soup pot out, filled it three-quarters of the way with
some of their 'good' water and set it to boil.  She started to go see how 
Sueann was, but something pulled her to the back door.  Peering out through 
the crack in the storm shutter, she looked longingly into the raging storm.  
/Where are you, my love?  Are you alright?/  A tear escaped to trace a path
down her cheek, and she had just started to turn away when a motion caught her 
eye.  Was that something moving near her studio?  Her heart leapt and she began 
fumbling with the deadbolt, cursing both her clumsiness and her exhaustion.  
       Before she could throw the bolt, *it* happened again.  That *flash* and 
then the bubble of soft light that shed the storm like a duck's feathers.  
Again, two figures inhabited the bubble of light.  Jean-Luc and the *Other*, 
as she found herself thinking of him.  It was difficult to tell for sure, but 
it seemed that Jean-Luc was looking in the general direction of the diner.  He 
seemed to turn, a little reluctantly, and the two spoke for a moment.  Then 
<flash> they and the bubble were gone.  Rena found herself clinging to the door, 
sobbing.  *This* time, she knew he was really gone.



                                    ###

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Subject: A'la Q, Part 7, by Kellie Matthews-Simmons & Julia Kosatka
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     Rena pulled the truck into a parking spot next to her Canyon Street
studio-gallery, set the brake, and leaned back with a sigh.  She was 
tired.  She'd helped Lanelle set up for her show's opening-night party, and 
had also stayed to help clean up afterward.  It was only a ten-twenty, but it 
felt like it must be two in the morning!  She opened the door and stepped 
out, looked up at the stars and smiled.  The night sky in Santa Fe never 
ceased to amaze her.  Even in town you could always see the stars.  
     She went in through the gallery, picked up the mail she'd been too
busy to read earlier, and opened the letter from Sueann.  As she did, a photo 
fell out and she leaned down and picked it up off the floor.  It was Luca's 
latest baby-picture.  She was a cute little rascal, at six months she was a 
wiry, healthy baby with blonde curls and lovely dark brown eyes.  Her smile 
was open and mischievous, like a little Puck of the wrong gender.  Smiling, 
she wondered how Jean-Luc would feel about Sueann having named her little girl 
in his honor.  Of course, Sueann thought he was dead, but Rena knew better.
     Every once in awhile she thought about what she'd seen that night and 
wondered if she had imagined it; but she'd never had hallucinations before or 
since, so she didn't really think so.  She skimmed Sueann's note quickly, 
pleased to see that she was still enjoying her job as Dr. Lacey's receptionist 
at his new office in Beaumont.  It was strange how well everything had worked
out after the storm.  It was almost as if Frieda had been good luck!  In every
way but one.  She still missed him, sometimes.  
     Annoyed with herself for being maudlin, she headed up the stairs to her 
apartment and turned on the TV.  Though she was tired, she didn't feel like 
sleeping yet.  Picking up the remote she began to channel-surf, looking for
something good.  She wasn't usually up this late, she wasn't sure what was on. 
Something caught her eye, and she stopped, watching a news story about a 
certain short billionaire with big ears who was running for president.  When 
the story finished, the end credits began to run, and a voiceover told her to 
"stay tuned for Star Trek."  She grinned.  It had been *ages* since she'd
watched Star Trek!  She settled in, wondering how long it would take her to
identify the episode.  Usually she could do it in about fifteen seconds.
She sat through a Thigh-Master commercial two beer ads, and a promo for a 
sitcom, then the show began.  
     She was instantly confused.  *This* wasn't Star Trek!  An attractive 
red-haired woman in a blue and black jumpsuit which looked just vaguely 
familiar was pulling a blue lab coat on as she entered a room full of 
odd-looking beds, talking to someone off-camera.  A lot of other people
in similar blue and black uniforms were milling around.  She said something 
about ambulatory casualties, then ordered everyone to stand clear, and they 
stood away from the center of the room.  
      That portion of the screen 'dissolved' in a typical Trek transporter 
effect, and 5 figures 'materialized' there.  Three of them wore gold and black 
uniforms and crouched with drawn weapons, a bearded guy in a red and black 
uniform stood to one side, and a big black guy with weird makeup stood next 
to him, holding another red-and-black clad man in his arms.  As the big guy 
set his burden down on one of the weird beds, the camera focused in on the 
face of the casualty, and Rena's jaw dropped.  Her stomach tied itself into 
a knot as she leaned forward  and stared at the screen as if sheer proximity 
would change what she was seeing.
      It didn't.  She realized there was a big burned-looking patch in the 
middle of his chest.  She tensed, was he dead?  He looked dead.  Who the hell 
was he?  He couldn't *possibly*, be who he looked like!  Could he?   The red-
head started doing Trekmedical-looking stuff to him, muttering intensely about
cardiac arrest and fused bioregulators, fading isocortical activity and a 
cordrazine series; then the scene began to wash out, voices echoing.  The scene
changed to show the man standing in a place filled with brilliant white light.  
A robed figure, indistinct in the radiant light, stood beckoning him.  He moved
toward the luminous person, who extended a hand.  As the man in red and black 
clasped that hand in his own, drawing him out of the radiance, Rena jumped to 
her feet, fists clenched.
      "SHIT!!!  Oh god, oh damn-it, what the hell is going on?"
      The robed figure was the jerk from the diner.  The one she had thrown
out.  The one Jean-Luc had been afraid of.  He smiled beneficently at the
other man, opened his mouth, and said;
      "Welcome to the afterlife, Jean-Luc, you're dead."


                           ###


      An hour later, having watched the entire episode, she sat in front of 
her now silent and dark television, staring at the blank screen sightlessly.  
She couldn't believe what she'd just seen!  Had the actor flipped-out last 
fall and gone on the road thinking he really *was* Jean-Luc Picard?  No, that 
didn't make sense, not unless *two* of them had gone off the deep end 
simultaneously.  She'd seen the Q-guy, too.  Not only had she seen him, she 
had seen him appear and disappear in the same flash of light they used on the 
show.  Which was, of course, patently impossible, since it was a video special 
effect not found in nature!  But... how else could she explain what had 
happened?  Some massive-scale practical joke?  
      Rena shook her head, running a hand through her hair in frustration.
The only other explanation, that her world had suddenly expanded to include 
fictional characters living 400 years in the future, was equally preposterous.
And there were differences... odd ones.  The Picard on the television was subtly 
different from the one she had known.  He seemed slightly more at ease with 
himself, oddly enough; and for some strange reason he also seemed a a little 
*younger*, or perhaps less experienced was a better way to put it.  She couldn't
quite put her finger on what it was that was different, she just knew it was 
*there*.  Could she possibly have *hallucinated* the whole thing?  Was it some 
sort of stress-induced... no.  That wasn't it either.  Doc Lacey, Sueann, Jake, 
Larry Cox...  they had all seen him too.  Hell, Sueann had named her baby after 
him!  He was *no* hallucination.  
      Suddenly doubting her own sanity, Rena got up and walked over to the 
shelf where she kept Prospero, running her fingers over the sculpture as if
it held the answer to her questions.  She closed her eyes, and remembered 
when those planes and hollows had been warm and real beneath her hands.  She
swallowed heavily, trying unsuccessfully to keep tears from welling up.  She
felt them spill over, trickling down from the outer corners of her eyes where
they'd been squeezed.  No!  He was *real* damn it!  Not a figment, not an
actor, a real, human, living, breathing... starship captain?
      From tears she went to the opposite extreme, and found herself laughing
almost hysterically at that thought.  God, no one would ever believe her!  
Rena wondered if Sueann had ever seen the show, or Doc, or any of the dozens
of other people who'd met him.  How had they rationalized the resemblance, 
and the name?  Or had they just dismissed it as a coincidence?  Suddenly she
found herself recalling the stunned expression he'd worn the first time he
had ever seen the original Trek.  No wonder he'd looked so pole-axed!  He
had been as shocked then as she was now... though he had dealt with it a
bit better.  It also explained his unfamiliarity with so many things she had
expected him to know about, even taking into account his status as a visitor 
from another *country*.  Washing machines, television, movies, sexual 
harassment...  it all made a certain bizarre sense now. 
      Gently she replaced the sculpture in its accustomed spot and sat back
down on the sofa, the same sofa she'd shared with him, many times.  The same
one whose cushions had served as padding for their first... she shunted that
thought aside.  No use dwelling on that.  She leaned back and closed her eyes,
rubbing her forehead abstractedly.  She said it out loud, wondering if it would
sound any different that way.
      "Jean-Luc, and Q... were you real?"
      A flash of light bright enough to penetrate her closed eyelids lit the
room.  She sat up instantly, and when her eyes focused she was staring at the
the sardonic face of the the being known as Q.  He was even wearing the same 
silver-white robe in which she'd just seen him.  He smiled mockingly.
      "Realer than you think, my dear."
      Before she could scream, or faint, or even gasp, the light flared and
he was gone, leaving her staring at the bluish afterimage he had left on her
retinas.


                               ###



     "Well, now that your little act of heroism is complete, shall we go?"
     Picard hesitated.  He wished he could say goodbye... but he couldn't 
delay the inevitable any longer.  He turned his gaze resolutely away from 
the past and looked at Q.
     "Yes, take me home."
     Q lifted an eyebrow, and Picard sighed, knowing exactly what he wanted. 
Ever since his experience with the Kataanian probe, he had gotten better at 
dealing with Q.  All he had to do was remember Meribor or Batai at around the
age of six, since Q operated at about that level.
     "Take me home, please."
     "That's better,"  Q said, looking smug.  
     The bridge of the Enterprise appeared around them.  Picard saw Riker leap 
to his feet, and heard startled exclamations from several of the bridge crew.  
He glanced around, noting that most of his officers were present, including
Beverly, who stood next to Deanna near the turbo-lift.  He was home.  A feeling 
of relief, tinged slightly with regret flooded him, and made him a bit reckless.
He looked at Q and smiled.
     "Have you ever thought of going into vacation planning, Q?"
     Q scowled huffily, and disappeared, leaving Jean-Luc standing on the
bridge, still dressed in soaking wet 20th century garb.
     "Captain?"  Riker said, his tone managing to convey, surprise, concern
and a touch of amusement simultaneously.  Picard turned toward him.
     "How long have I been gone?"
     His first officer shot a glance at Data, hesitated, then shrugged.
     "Well, you went into your ready-room a little over an hour ago..."
     "An hour?"  he asked, startled.  "Is that all?"
     "One hour, twenty-seven minutes, thirty one seconds, to be precise," 
Data supplied.
     Picard shook his head.  "I see Q's been playing with time in more
ways than one.  I just spent a week on Earth in the late twentieth century."
     Riker grinned.  "Well, that explains the getup."
     "Actually, it's quite comfortable... when it's not wet.  Everything
under control here?"
     Riker nodded. "Nothing unusual to report,"  he grinned.  "Except for you, 
that is."
     Picard smiled wryly.  "Good, then I'll go change, and come back
to fill you in on a few details after I'm dry."
     He moved toward the lift, leaving a trail of damp footprints up the
ramp.  Beverly was eyeing at him rather intently, with a slight smile on her
face.  He nodded to her as he passed, entered the turbo-lift, and as the doors
hissed closed he heard Deanna exclaim "Beverly!"  in a rather scandalized 
tone of voice.  He wondered what that was all about as the lift descended toward
deck 9, and his quarters.


                         ###

     Dry, and re-uniformed, Picard put his jeans and shirt into the 
processor for cleaning.  He had every intention of keeping them, in fact,
he made a mental note to have the garment's patterns stored in the replicator 
for future use.  He had gotten rather accustomed to them, and also suspected 
they would make extremely comfortable riding attire.  He sat down at his desk 
to make a few notes in his personal log, and stopped, wondering if it had been 
real, or some Q-induced dream.  He dismissed that idea almost instantly.  No, 
the jeans were real, and he had no doubt at all that Rena had been real too.  
He stared thoughtfully into space for a moment, then straightened, tugging his 
uniform tunic into place.
     "Computer, access historical database.  Retrieve any information 
regarding a community called Ridge, Texas, United States of America, in the 
year 1991."
     "Working...  Ridge, Texas.  Destroyed by hurricane Frieda on September
17th, 1991."
     He stiffened, his throat tight against a cry of pain.  Destroyed?  No!
Impossible!  He closed his eyes, shook his head, and unclenched his fists.
     "Elaborate, what happened to the *people* who lived there?"
     "Following the hurricane, government funds were allocated to relocate
the survivors to other areas."
     "How many were... killed?"
     "No official casualties listed.  One person listed as missing, and 
presumed dead."
     Relief washed through him, followed closely by puzzlement.  If the
town had been destroyed, how had everyone survived?
     "Please display full record of this incident."
     His viewscreen lit with information, and he read quickly, a smile forming
as he read.  Apparently every building in Ridge had been leveled with the 
peculiar exceptions of the doctor's office, the Double R Diner, and a small 
outbuilding behind the diner.  Weather experts had been unable to explain why
the two widely separated buildings had been spared.  The townsfolk had all
taken refuge in the diner, and no one garnered more than a few scrapes and
bruises.  
     The one person listed as missing had been a visitor to the town, a man
who was lauded as a hero for going to fetch the doctor to care for a woman
in labor.  He had claimed to be a French national, but neither U.S. nor French 
immigration officials had ever been able to find any record of the man, and had
decided he must have been using a pseudonym.  Because the town had been so
thoroughly destroyed, the inhabitants had opted to take federal funds and use
them to relocate, rather than trying to rebuild.
     He stared at the record for a few moments, then spoke again.
     "Computer, search archives for any record of a sculptor named Rena Taylor,
who would have been working in the late twentieth and possibly early twenty-
first centuries, display here."
     "Accessing..."
     It took the machine a few seconds, then the image on his viewscreen
changed.  It was Rena, but not quite the Rena he'd known. This woman was at
least 20, maybe 30 years older but with the same infectious smile, the same
bright green eyes.  Under the picture was the legend:
     Rena Taylor Gustavson, 21st century, Sol 3, United States of America
      Jean-Luc smiled to himself, knowing that the additional surname 
indicated that at some point she had gotten married.  That pleased him. He
began reading the text on the screen.
      Brief:
      Rena Taylor Gustavson (human, b. 1959, d. 2060) commonly known as 
      Rena Taylor, was one of the most important sculptors of the 21st 
      century.  While she, along with Houser and Richtmann, bridged the 20th 
      and 21st centuries, most scholars agree that her works belong with 
      those of the Pan American School which appeared in 2104, rather than 
      with what later became known as the Neo-Columbians of the late 20th 
      century.  Her work is usually divided into three distinct periods.  
      Dark, Light and Ethereal.  There is some controversy concerning the 
      distinction between the Light and Ethereal periods, but most scholars 
      agree on the transition from Dark to Light.  That transition occurred 
      in 1991 and is marked by what are generally considered to be two of her 
      most important and beautiful works.  

      A more detailed discussion of the artist's style, innovative use
      of bronze polymer and influence on other sculptors is available on 
      request.  A brief description of two of her major works follows.
      A complete list is available on request.

      The Stand (Sol 3, North American Museum of Fine Arts) was her 
      final Dark piece.  It is a 1.5 meter bronze of a dying female wolf 
      (Sol 3, canis, lupus) defending an injured cub, a second cub lies
      dead in the background.  This highly disturbing piece has been 
      removed from exhibition several times during its existence due 
      to its perceived detrimental effect on the viewer.  It narrowly 
      escaped destruction in the Reformation of 2214.

      Prospero (Sol 3, North American Museum of Fine Arts) marks the 
      beginning of Taylor's "Light Period."  Not exhibited outside her own 
      home until after her death, Prospero is considered one of only two 
      true portraits by the artist.  The cold-cast bronze depicts a nude, 
      seated, adult human male.
      
      Jean-Luc stared at the two pictures on the screen, and a ripple of 
shock ran through him.  The first he'd seen in Rena's studio, and again in 
the diner's storeroom when they'd brought them in for safekeeping during 
the storm.  The other... the other was...  He closed his eyes a moment then 
looked again.  It *was* him; but then again, it *wasn't*.  He tried to 
pinpoint the differences but was unable to put his finger on it.  For all 
that the statue definitely looked like him, he felt it was a bit idealized, as
it showed a very attractive man.  He had never considered himself to be more 
than average-looking.  
      In truth, he rarely thought about his looks at all, other than to make 
sure his appearence was acceptable.  He had better things to do with his time 
that to sit around wondering whether people liked him better in cobalt or mint.
He simply wore what he liked, and was who he was.  He studied the sculpture 
again, still feeling mildly embarrassed, though no one would ever connect him 
with it, considering the fact that it was 400 years older than he was!  He
wondered wryly how Riker would feel, in a similar situation.  Probably *not*
embarrassed.  He wondered about Rena, and what she had done after the storm.
      "Computer, are there any biographies available on Rena Taylor?"
      "There are fifteen biographies and one autobiography on file."
      He smiled.  "Replicate the autobiograpy, using standard facsimile 
parameters."
      He crossed the room and waited. A moment later a small volume appeared 
in the replicator slot.  He picked up the book, traced his finger appreciatively 
over the embossed binding, and opened it.  The title page indicated that it 
had been published in 2057, only a few years before her death.  That thought 
made a peculiar tension fill his throat, and he turned the page quickly only 
to stop, frozen, the tautness worsening as he read the dedication, peculiar 
as it was.

Prospero

"You knew who I was
I know who you will be
Past meets future, 
Mates,
To create present.
Now is wholly changed
With the birth of love
Midwif'd by a petulant god.
No regrets
Just memories
To warm cold nights."

      He closed his eyes for a moment, and put the book down.  He would read 
it later, speculate on her meaning later.  Right now, he had a briefing to 
conduct.





                                The End